Mnemosyne
by Garrae
Summary: "The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it." And suddenly, she did. AU from 47 Seconds. #Castleficathon2019
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it."

And suddenly, she did. The world went black around her; she sat down hard in the chair, and everything stopped as she remembered. The searing pain in her chest, the fall, the hard ground and the burning blue sky; Castle leaning over her and pressing down hard and the blood spurting over his hands and shirt as he begged her to stay with him, told her he loved her, over and over. But it hurt too much then to say anything, as the lights went out.

* * *

Castle had slipped into Observation without disturbing Captain Gates, whose dislike of him hadn't softened by one whit in several months. He was looking forward to seeing a suspect eviscerated in Beckett's best take-no-prisoners style, and then maybe they'd get a chance to finish the discussion which, he was _sure_, had been leading towards an admission that there would be a change in their relationship. He could hardly wait: delighted anticipation and impatience barely contained.

And then she said _I remember every second_, and his whole life fell apart in four words. He spun on his heel, devastated, and left, white-faced, shocked and furious. He'd heard and seen nothing after Beckett's words: all his illusions ripped away. She'd known all this time. His world lay shattered around him, all his hopes and dreams destroyed.

Nobody noticed Castle leaving as the interrogation fell apart. Beckett said nothing, slumped in the chair and apparently barely conscious; the suspect totally confused, still reeling from Beckett's hard questioning and then her immediate collapse.

"Detectives Esposito, Ryan! Get her out of there." Gates had seen it all, from Observation, and acted fast. "Esposito, take over the interrogation. Ryan, you deal with Detective Beckett!"

Esposito and Ryan barged into Interrogation, where Beckett was entirely oblivious to anything around her, locked into a memory she couldn't escape. Their suspect was almost as shocked as the cops at the situation, of which Esposito took full advantage. While he took over, Ryan manhandled Beckett out of the room and planted her in the nearest conference room. She didn't notice; eyes blind, ears deaf; imprisoned.

"Beckett!" Ryan settled her on the couch, terrified. "Beckett!" She was entirely unresponsive, curling tightly into herself in a foetal ball, soundless, but her face bloodless and agonised. He had no idea what to do.

The furious form of Captain Gates gestured him out without speaking.

"Explain what happened in there," Gates snapped at Ryan.

"I don't know, sir."

"Detective Esposito?" He shifted from one foot to the other, and Gates caught it. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Do not lie to me, Detective. If you don't _know_, what do you think? Assuming that you are able to think. My detective is currently fainting in a conference room as a result of something that happened in that interrogation, so you _damn well think_."

In the silence that followed, Captain Gates preserved a steely countenance and did some focused thinking of her own.

"And where is Mr Castle in all this mess?"

"Uh?"

"Detective Beckett is ill. Why is Mr Castle not here? He was in Observation, I thought."

"He was here?" Ryan and Esposito looked at each other, confused. "He can't know."

"One of you tell him." She waited for a single beat. "Now. Not next week."

Ryan dialled. The call went straight to voicemail. "Castle, it's Ryan. Call me."

"Your thoughts, Detective." Gates frowned heavily at Esposito.

"No thoughts, sir."

Gates's expression said _Liar_ as clearly as a photo. "In that case, I expect Detective Beckett to become present in this office immediately. Fetch her."

Esposito executed a smart about-face and exited. A moment later, he returned. Alone.

"Where is Detective Beckett?" Gates's tone would have blistered rock.

"She's…um…"

Gates swept out of her office and into the conference room – and stopped short. Her best (not that she would allow that to be known) detective appeared to be unconscious: small, fragile and broken: curled like a terrified child; bloodless and gasping in air. Esposito and Ryan arrived behind her, sucking in breath.

"Get her coffee."

Ryan obeyed with alacrity, and put it under Beckett's nose.

"Out." They left. Gates shut the conference room door, sat down, and waited. After far longer than it should have taken, and at a point where Gates was seriously considering calling for first aid, Detective Beckett blinked, partially uncurled, and opened her eyes.

"Detective." Gates was icy, though she was concerned by Beckett's vacant expression. "Explain what has just occurred."

"Sir?" Beckett's gaze wasn't steady, and both her voice and hands were shaking as she sat, slumped in a way Gates had never previously seen. Gates's concern intensified.

"Let me recall the situation to your mind." Harsh formality was required. "You were in the middle of conducting an interrogation. You then collapsed. Explain yourself."

"I don't know, sir."

"If you are sick, you should not be here. If there is some other explanation, you have ten seconds to begin it."

Detective Beckett shook her head, as if dislodging something. Her hand had slipped up to cover her chest. She began to draw her knees up, and stopped, though Gates thought that the defensive move gave away more than it protected.

"I… what did I say?"

"Your last comment" – Gates's eyes were sharp upon her detective – "was _I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it_." Every drop of blood drained from Beckett's face, and she lost all awareness, again.

Gates stood up and stalked out, closing the door behind her. She summoned Detective Beckett's team with a commanding gesture.

"Detective Beckett is clearly not well. You will continue the case without her. You may continue to use Mr Castle to assist, pro tem. I will revisit that decision in due course. One of you will monitor her, and when she rouses, you will escort her to me. Dismissed."

* * *

Castle couldn't remember anything about how he had travelled home. Alone in his study, his rage and misery boiled and bubbled. He'd really believed they were on the edge of becoming more. And she'd just been stringing him along, for months. He couldn't bear it: all his dreams, nothing more than soap bubbles, popping in the harsh wind of reality. He'd never believed she could be so cruel, so callous, and so calculating. She'd simply used him.

She'd never really cared, and all the closeness he had thought was building was simply exceptional acting. Well, if that was how she felt, _fuck it_. He switched his phone off. He didn't want her to call, because he'd answer: Pavlovian reaction. He wouldn't be her dog.

A small tendril of reason crept through his rage. If … if she apologised tomorrow, if she gave him a reason, if… well, if, then he'd listen. He'd go back tomorrow, and give her one last chance. But… then he needed time to think about her reason, away from her. Away from the narcotic effect she had on his logic.

Love, of course, wasn't logical. But love could die, or be killed. And logic could be used, if he wasn't too close to the woman he'd _thought_ was falling as deeply in love with him as he already had with her.

He'd go away for the weekend. Vegas. As far away from Manhattan in attitudes as he could get: a hedonistic city with no names or recognition or caring. And then he'd decide what to do.

He went on line, and shortly his weekend was arranged.

* * *

"What the _fuck_ happened in there?" Ryan almost never used that word.

"I don't know. 'S not like Beckett to be sick."

"You think she's sick? You looked like you had a different thought when Gates was yelling at us. Like maybe she'd had another flashback."

"I don't know, 'kay? I thought she was fine. There's been nothing for months. No reason she should spook like that."

"We don't know what went down in there."

"So let's listen to the recording."

They went and applied some gentle persuasion to the tech, who promised to produce the recording as soon as they could.

"Okay. Better go check on her."

"Surprised Castle isn't here. I'd'a thought he'd come running, or at least call back."

"Must be something up at home." They left it at that, not satisfied, but perfectly aware that Castle regarded his family as paramount.

Beckett had managed to drain the coffee when they sidled in, though she had her arms around her knees and her head was down.

"What's up?"

"You okay?"

She looked up. The boys managed not to react to the ghastly expression on her pallid face. "Yeah."

"You don't look it. You look like a truck ran over you. Twice."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I can." Neither man was convinced, watching her struggle to her feet and wobble worryingly. "Where's Castle?"

"Don't know. Guess something's up at home."

"Oh."

"Anyway, Gates wants to see you."

"Oh."

"Better move. She wasn't in a good mood."

Beckett moved. She felt like hell. She couldn't get the memory of the shooting out of her head, either, and she had no reserves to face Gates. She wanted Castle, who'd get her through this just as he had before, and then she could… could what? She'd wanted to tell him everything and then they'd been interrupted and now… now things were shattering around her. The shell had broken, and she'd drained out, unable to put it back together. And Castle wasn't there, and without him… she wasn't strong enough.

"Detective. Shut the door." She did, and stood at her best take on parade rest.

It wasn't good enough.

"Sit." It was the least welcoming invitation she'd ever had. She sat. "Now, explain." Cold silence fell. Gates's fingers tapped irritably. "Have you any good reason why I shouldn't suspend you right now?"

Beckett simply stared, failing to process.

"Detective, you were conducting a simple interrogation and suddenly you shut down. Clearly you are unfit for duty. You can provide an explanation of why your final sentence had this effect, or I can speculate. I detest speculation, and if you force me to speculate I can guarantee that you will not like the answers or my subsequent actions. You are on the edge of disciplinary action, and I will not hesitate to take it."

"I" – Beckett paled further, and gulped, breathing shallow and rapid.

"Truth, Detective."

"I had a flashback." Gates blinked, slowly. She wasn't completely surprised. "I don't know why."

"How often has this happened?" Gates stopped. Cogs meshed in her head. "Five months ago, there was a case with a sniper. You were not yourself for part of that case. However, since it appeared that it did not affect your work or the eventual outcome, I did not pursue it at the time. I am now reconsidering my decision. Have you had any further episodes since that case?"

"Not since then. I was cleared for duty," Beckett said. "I was fine."

"You did not inform me of your…difficulties on the sniper case." Gates's glare would have pierced steel. "Did you have a flashback on that case?"

"I worked through it."

"Answer my question."

"Yes."

Gates was ominously silent. "As a senior detective you should have informed me of any matter affecting your fitness for duty," she hissed. "You did not."

"I was fine! I was _cleared_."

"Except today has proved that you are not _fine_ at all. You are relieved of duty, indefinitely. You will return to the department-approved psychiatrist until you are re-cleared."

Beckett stared, horrified. "But…"

"No. You are a risk to yourself and others. Medical leave, Detective. I expect you to have left the bullpen in the next five minutes. If you return without a further psych clearance, you will be subject to a disciplinary hearing."

Beckett entirely failed to preserve a blank face. She looked as if Gates had shot her, and her hand went back to the scar over her heart.

"Gun and shield," Gates said. Beckett laid both slowly on the desk between them. "Dismissed."

"Sir," she whispered, and left. Gates watched her go, relieved that the gun was not with her detective, and watched her leave the bullpen without a word to a single person. Then she turned to her next problem. Detectives Ryan and Esposito. She decided to leave them until they had solved the current case. Then, however, she intended to have a very pointed discussion with both of them, and then with Mr Castle. After the case was solved.

* * *

Beckett stumbled out of the bullpen, shell-shocked and shivering. She caught a cab home, unable to collect her head together to drive safely. She kept seeing that day, almost a year ago. Hard blue sky and the hot sun and the pain. She… Castle had got her through the last time. She needed him, and for the first time, he wasn't there. She had to talk to him, to see him. She pulled out her phone, and tapped his number.

He didn't answer. She left a message. "Castle…call me. Please." She managed to make it sound normal, as if it was nothing major. She couldn't admit her pain and need to a voicemail service: it had taken all her nerve to try to call him and admit it to him in person. The cab jounced its way to her block, but he hadn't called back when she arrived.

She didn't know what to do, and every other minute, the memories bit at her brain, nibbling away her shell of control. She changed to a soft robe, and then, with still no word from Castle, lay on her bed and stared at the unresponsive ceiling, the thin, fragile shell of her life shattering around her as all her work to recover had done. Thin trickles of liquid leaked from her eyes. Everything she'd worked to try to mend…ruined. She stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, uncomfortably dozing. Her phone didn't ring, but, spiralling downwards, she no longer noticed.

When she eventually woke the next day, there was still no message. She didn't understand it, but sent a brief text. _Hope everything's okay. Call me. KB._ When that remained unanswered too, she didn't try again. Probably there had been a break in the case, she told herself, and, still lost and unable to move past the overshadowing memories, didn't ask why he hadn't called when the boys must have told him what had happened.

Gradually, however, a sneaking, subtle thought slithered through her mind. The boys had told him, and…he'd decided that since she wasn't fixed, wasn't allowed to work, she wasn't enough. Of course, the thought wasn't that specific, but its tentacles reached into her brain, and latched on. He'd given up on her. She couldn't really say she was surprised. She'd tried and tried to be fixed, but it was almost a year on, and she hadn't managed it. Yesterday had proved how little she had managed it. She couldn't have truly expected him to wait for her, when she couldn't be enough. She couldn't prove she was enough if she wasn't able to work, because if she was enough she'd be allowed to work, but she wasn't, so she couldn't be.

And if she couldn't be enough, why was she bothering to see the shrink at all? She'd only ever done it so that she could be with Castle, and if that were gone…

If that was gone, everything was gone. She returned to her bedroom, turned into her pillow, and tried not to weep. And then she didn't bother trying any more. Who was there to see? The same no-one as occupied the rest of her life. Since there was no-one to see, it seemed pointless to get up, so she didn't. She wasn't hungry, so she didn't bother eating. She simply lay there, disconnected, until she fell asleep again.

There was no point in doing anything, when she woke. So she didn't, vaguely moving from bed to couch and back again, her mind a fog of grey nothingness and her body exhausted.

* * *

In the precinct, Ryan and Esposito were working their asses off in an effort to remove themselves from Gates's beady regard. They had a horrible feeling that they were under intense and ominous scrutiny. Consequently, they were delighted to see Castle, who would be the first port of call for Gates's wrath.

"Hey, man."

"Yo."

Castle looked around, and didn't see Beckett. He shrugged, and assumed she was at the morgue. "What have we got?" Talk turned to the case, and nobody mentioned Beckett.

"You okay?" Ryan asked eventually. "Called you yesterday."

"Yeah, well. Something came up and it got a bit complicated. Personal stuff." He'd ignored Ryan's call just as he'd ignored Beckett's brief voicemail.

Ryan took the hint, and didn't ask. He also decided that if Castle had complicated personal stuff to deal with, then he'd let him get round to asking about Beckett in his own time, rather than adding another difficulty when the man looked pretty strung out already.

And then they hit a break and it was all go and frantic work and nobody at all noticed that Castle didn't ask about Beckett, even as they took down the suspect and she wasn't there. In fact, Castle had slipped away as soon as the killer was identified, even before the arrest was made. By the time Espo and Ryan noticed he was gone, it was late. They'd call him later. Beckett, too. All Gates had said was that Beckett wouldn't be in today. She'd be happy to know they'd caught the killer, and that she didn't have to do the paperwork.

Esposito and Ryan eventually left in a glow of conscious virtue entirely occasioned by both catching the killer and completing all the paperwork to boot.

"Think Beckett'll be back tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Really?" Ryan asked.

"Sure. Why wouldn't she be?"

"Gates was pretty pissed at her."

"Gates likes the solve rate, though. No chance she'll bench Beckett for long. Her stats won't stand it."

"Huh. We never worked out what set it off."

"Didn't we get that recording?"

"Yeah, but we didn't need to listen to it to get the perp, so I left it till we had time."

"Monday. Get it fixed, whatever it was."

They went for a celebratory beer, which turned into several, and by the time they remembered about calling Beckett or Castle it was too late to call anyone at all and survive the experience.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_This is a long story and my entry for the 2019 summer ficathon. Usual posting schedule: Sunday/Tuesday/Thursday._

_If you haven't read my original novel, Death in Focus (SR Garrae), the summer holidays are your perfect opportunity. Available to all on Amazon._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Castle, watching the earth turn under the wings of the plane, requested a Scotch from the cabin crew and sipped it, forcing himself to take it slowly. He had six hours on this plane, and he'd rather walk off it than be carried. He still couldn't believe Beckett's words. _I remember every second_. Well, by the time he'd spent the weekend in the glitz and buzz of Vegas, maybe he'd have forgotten that he'd hoped…

No point hoping. He simply couldn't understand why she wouldn't tell him she remembered. He'd thought…well, he'd thought that she'd been giving him hope on the swings, months ago, but nothing had changed – that wasn't true either, though. They'd been closer. She'd been closer, more visible in her eyes than he'd wanted to make a noise about, more of a connection…

And all of it just a product of his over-active imagination. She hadn't even been around that day, so clearly it wasn't important to her to see him or apologise. A brief message and briefer text weren't enough, if she couldn't face him. He guessed it was over.

He ordered another Scotch, and resolutely didn't think about a single thing except the game on his phone until they landed and he reached his expensive hotel. And then he went down to a smart casino, all dressed up and ready to play, flashed a bright, white and totally insincere smile around, and joined a high-stakes poker table, his mind wholly on the game.

Beautiful women in more or less revealing outfits swirled around the moneyed men at his table, but Castle wasn't looking at them: he was subsumed in the game. He didn't make a thing of it, and it wasn't normally needed with his poker buddies back in Manhattan, but he had funded quite a bit of college through poker, and he was excellent at it. When he was angry, he was even better, and searingly competitive about the game.

In short, he was winning, and winning big. He couldn't lose, it seemed. When he folded, he barely dropped a couple of chips. When he bluffed, it came off. When he had a winning hand, the other players lost big. His pile of chips grew, the drink on his left remained untouched, the pretty women swirled around him unnoticed, and best of all, he wasn't thinking about anything else but the game.

Eventually, he was too tired to continue, which also, happily, meant that he was too tired to think. He realised without surprise that it was almost daybreak, cashed in his chips and didn't care about the enormous total, and went back to his room to sleep.

Sleep was not refreshing, laden with nightmares and flavoured with humiliation.

He woke at dinnertime, and didn't care: barely tasted the top-class cuisine and returned to the tables, where he repeated the previous night's performance. Quite a number of the women tried to attract his attention, and a few of those went further, but he brushed them off. The only thing that mattered was the game, and winning. Women would only remind him of everything he was desperately not thinking about.

On Sunday, he did the same again, bitterly not-celebrating his birthday with another pile of winnings, until the limo took him back to the airport for the midnight flight back to the arid desert that Manhattan had become. In the airport lounge, he checked his phone. Beckett hadn't called or texted again. He told himself that was a good thing, and ignored his silly, childish wish that she'd kept trying, which might have made up for her inability to see him in person. Clearly she hadn't been calling about anything important to her. She hadn't even wished him happy birthday.

He tried to sleep on the way back, finally managing a scant hour after four straight Scotches, to be woken by a flight attendant who introduced herself as Jacinta. Still less than sober, Castle's sodden brain suddenly thought that if Beckett didn't care about him, he'd make sure she knew he didn't care about her. (_Liar_, said a little voice. _This is a bad plan_. He ignored it, in favour of the Scotch's plan.)

For a sizeable tip and a chance to drive a real Ferrari, Jacinta the flight attendant was quite happy to play along and show up with him, he found. Which would be just plain perfect.

And if a nasty twinge of conscience kept biting him, well, the Scotch had dulled that too.

* * *

On Monday, Beckett still wasn't in the bullpen. Unfortunately, Captain Gates was in her office, and had arrived before the boys.

"Detectives Ryan and Esposito. My office. Now."

They jumped to obey.

"Shut the door." That was even worse than being summoned. Gates's cold eyes transfixed them. "Explain to me, _if_ you please, why you did not inform me of Detective Beckett's PTSD at the time of the sniper case?"

Silence echoed.

"I assume you were, in fact, aware of her PTSD?"

"Uh…"

"Because if you were not, then I have to question whether you are actually a team."

The men looked at each other.

"So you were aware." Her tone bit. "And you did not see fit to inform me."

"She got through it. There wasn't anything more. We're a team."

"If you were a _team_, Detectives, you would have had Detective Beckett's best interests at heart. It is quite obvious that she has not _got through it_, and had you thought at all, you would have realised that for something that serious it was your duty to report to me at the time regardless of what Detective Beckett wanted or _team_ behaviour. Had you done so, last week's fiasco would not have occurred. Had you told me the truth on Thursday, we would not be having this interview. You did neither."

She paused, and regarded her shaken detectives bleakly.

"Detective Beckett is now on medical leave. You may both consider yourselves formally reprimanded for concealing relevant information about her fitness for duty. You will continue on duty. You will not contact Detective Beckett about any precinct matters or cases – which means, Detectives, that you will not contact her, since she will undoubtedly ask about cases – until she returns to work. You will contact Mr Castle and inform him that I wish to see him at his earliest convenience. You will not tell him anything about this discussion or about Detective Beckett's condition. I expect that he will already know about the latter issue. Dismissed."

Gates's icy expression chased them from her office. When they had gone, Gates picked up her phone and put in a call to a colleague. Some moments later, she had her answer. It didn't reassure her in the slightest. Detective Beckett had not, as yet, availed herself of the health insurance policy. Gates had expected her to do so almost immediately: she had not missed Detective Beckett's almost insane work ethic. She made a note to check again in a couple of days' time.

* * *

Ryan and Esposito stared at each other miserably. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Before they could call Castle, however, Dispatch sent them off to a new case. They called him on the way, but didn't tell him about Gates. That would wait till they saw him in person, at the scene.

"Hey, guys."

Ryan and Esposito looked round to see Castle's smiling face. Something was off with his smile, but they had no idea what.

"Hey, man – wow, is that the Ferrari?"

"Yeah." He smirked. "Popped over to Vegas for the weekend."

"Who's that?"

Castle was looking round the scene. "Where's Beckett?"

Ryan and Esposito were suddenly very conscious of Gates's orders and the rising tension in the air. "Not here. Who's that?"

The blonde stood up, and waved at Castle. He turned round, and tossed her the car keys. She dived into the driver's seat, and took off.

"A friend." He smirked again, though Ryan (vastly more attuned to emotions than Esposito) thought that it was hiding something – and not a one night stand, either. Castle looked indefinably older than last week. "No Beckett?" He almost sounded disappointed. Ryan looked sharply at him, but didn't ask the question trembling on his tongue. Espo would raise hell if he thought that Castle was deliberately showing off another woman in front of Beckett, and certainly Ryan had thought that Castle was long past that. Still, something was off. Badly, badly off.

"Whatever," Esposito said, uninterested. "We got this corpse."

"A new body? Great. What do we know?"

"_We_ have a body. _You_ have Gates."

"What?"

"Gates told us to tell you to report to her at 'your earliest convenience'. She didn't say why, but if I were you, bro, I'd be on my way there already."

"And if I don't?"

"She's looking for any excuse to ban you. Don't give her one."

"Aw, Espo. I never knew you cared."

Espo made a rude noise. "Anyway, Gates wants to see you like yesterday. When she's done with you, come back. This one's as weird as any, and we could use you."

"Okay. Guess I'd better go brave the dragon." Castle left, without his usual bouncy stride.

Both detectives noticed that Castle hadn't asked about Beckett again.

"Something's up between them." Who didn't need to be specified.

"Aw, shit. Not again." Which was all that needed to be said, for now.

* * *

In her empty apartment, Beckett was drifting through the space, barely noticing the unmade bed, the dirty glasses at the sink. There were no dirty plates. She'd dreamed of the shooting, again. If she didn't think, though, there might be fewer memories. Not that that mattered, now. Nothing really mattered, now.

Gradually an idea insinuated its way into her unhappy mind. It was deeply seductive. It squiggled round, comfortingly, and encouraged her to listen to it. Shortly, slowly, she began to pack. She didn't make choices, or selections. She didn't pack anything attractive, or any heeled shoes, only sneakers. No point. No-one cared. No-one had called her. She'd proved that she couldn't do the job, so they'd all moved on. She didn't care, or condemn. If she couldn't do the job, she was no use. She continued to pack, not hearing the dispirited chirp of her phone's battery giving out, not remembering to put in the charger.

She'd wholly forgotten how worried her friends had been when she'd dropped out last summer; forgotten that this was the same self-destructive pattern as she'd fallen into then: believing that no-one would care, that as soon as she wasn't at work she was forgotten. As soon as the flashback had hit, her shell had shattered, and all the unsolved problems had swallowed her up. All her therapy might as well have been useless, as she dropped straight down into the abyss of old, bad thoughts and habits.

This time, though, she knew that she had no reason to try to solve any of her issues. That was gone, and with it, any hope she'd had of a happy ever after. She hadn't realised just how much she'd been counting on it – on him; she'd known his presence helped, but not just how much. Till it was gone. They'd all been right. She'd left it too late, struggling to fix herself after the bullet had taken away the point at which she was ready to dive right in, and it had simply…taken too long.

She didn't cry. She just kept on packing, mechanically, thoughtlessly. And when she was done, she picked up a cab to take her to her car, still at the precinct, and then mechanically drove out of Manhattan towards the cabin. She supposed, vaguely, that she should have tendered her resignation, but she couldn't summon the energy. It could wait. Everything could wait. There was no hurry to do anything. She focused all her limited energy and concentration on the road, and when she was tired, stopped at a cheap motel, halfway there, for the night. It didn't matter if she took one day or two days or ten days. She had all the time in the world.

* * *

"Mr Castle." Gates's lips twisted in disdain. "Come in, and close the door."

"What do you want?" Castle said, not politely.

Gates raised her well-groomed eyebrows. "I assume you wish to continue here?" Castle said nothing. He wasn't quite ready to throw a departure at her. Not yet. He still had a thin thread of hope that he'd misunderstood: that it was a lie for interrogation – he'd only just thought of that, but he liked it – or that, now that he'd calmed a little, there was some other explanation. Though likely he'd fritzed all that by letting his temper get the better of him and bringing Jacinta to a crime scene, hoping to show Beckett that _she_ might not care but plenty of others would. By now the boys would have downloaded to her, and she'd be hiding herself as fast as she could manage. There was nothing to confess, though. He hadn't laid a finger on Jacinta.

"I infer that you do." Castle inferred that Gates wished that he did not. She regarded him frigidly over the rims of her glasses. "However. Your continued attendance here is solely due to Detective Beckett's presence." This was not news. "Detective Beckett has been placed on leave."

"What?"

Gates didn't answer. "Therefore any reason for your continued presence is, shall we say, tenuous at best."

"What?"

"Without Detective Beckett, I assume, you will not wish to attend."

"You assume wrong," Castle bit.

"I see. I thought you regarded yourself as her – unofficial, of course – partner. Is that not true?"

"I…" He swithered, and came down on "do". He wasn't sure he was telling the whole truth. Or any truth.

"In which case, if you wish to stay in my precinct in any capacity whatsoever, you had better answer the next question truthfully."

What the hell? Castle's well-developed instinct for trouble, already on alert, went to DEFCON1 in a picosecond.

"Were you aware of Detective Beckett's PTSD?" Castle stared at Gates, utterly speechless. "I require an answer."

"She got over it," he blurted.

"So you were aware." He nodded, unsure where this was going but absolutely certain it was nowhere good. "And – as her self-proclaimed _partner_ – you did not think that this was a matter of which I, as her Captain and ultimately responsible for her welfare, should be aware?"

He said nothing. Pointing out Beckett's intense wish not to come to Gates's attention for any reason would not help.

"If you had been her _partner_, you would have had Detective Beckett's best interests at heart, rather than colluding with her to allow her to conceal the true severity of her condition. I am led to conclude that you are not her partner, but merely her shadow. Since it is also clear that you have no idea of the reason for this discussion, I also conclude that you have not spoken with her since her collapse in Interrogation on Thursday."

"_What_?"

"You were present, Mr Castle. Surely you saw her collapse?"

"No…" Collapse? What collapse? His whole world had collapsed, not Beckett.

"Do not lie to me. You were in Observation."

"I left."

"You left. I see. You must have left immediately prior to her collapse, then. And you have not spoken to her since. Hardly the actions of a partner. Usually, partners are concerned about their colleagues."

"I _am_ her partner," Castle snapped, stung. "And she didn't tell me she was going on vacation." He ignored the inconvenient truth that she had both called and texted, and he hadn't replied to either.

"I did not say she was on vacation."

"Whatever. She didn't tell me."

"Hardly surprising. I did not say vacation because she is not on vacation. She has been placed on leave. Which, if you were her partner, you would have known, because you would have spoken to her. But then, if you were her partner and not just here for your own self-aggrandisement and to sell more books, you would have had far more regard for her welfare five months ago, when, it appears, all of you knew that she was suffering from PTSD and not one of you made the slightest effort to assist in the _one way_ which would have truly helped: reporting to me. I conclude that a team which outwardly appeared to be very close is, in fact, profoundly weak."

"You're wrong! We _are_ partners and the team was strong enough to get Beckett through it. She was fine by the end of it."

"Really." Gates didn't sound as if that had been a question. "I'm not seeing it, Mr Castle."

"What happened?"

"Now you ask?"

"_Yes._ What. Happened. What do you mean she's been placed on leave? When's she coming back?"

"Detective Beckett is on indefinite medical leave until she is cleared to return."

Castle sat down, hard. "What _happened_ in there?"

"Why should you care? You – none of you – cared enough to call her afterwards. I don't owe you any explanations. You're not a cop and, it seems, you're not much of a partner either. Since it does not seem that there was much of a team, I am wholly unsurprised, though I am disappointed." Gates made a dismissive gesture. "You can follow Detectives Ryan and Esposito, if you wish, since you seem to have some faint value to them. Do not come to my attention. I don't need passengers."

"No! You can't do this!"

"Need I remind you that _I_ am the authority in this precinct? You may think that the Mayor will help you, but I assure you that if you go down that route, it is a fight you will not win."

"You have to tell me what happened! She's my partner and" – he stopped. Blurting out his feelings in front of Gates was bound to be disastrous.

"And? Do continue this fascinating sentence."

"I'm her partner. Whatever she does, I'm still her partner."

Gates regarded him with slightly less hostility. "That almost sounded sincere." Castle scowled blackly. "Why did you leave Observation?" His lips clamped together. Gates watched him closely. "What did you hear?" She paused. "You heard her say she remembered. Which I find very interesting, because it was my understanding that Detective Beckett remembered nothing about that day. Should I be reconsidering that understanding, in the light of knowing – now – that Detective Beckett was suffering from PTSD?"

Castle was perfectly capable of drawing rapid, correct conclusions of his own. "She collapsed right after she said it, didn't she? And though you're telling me _nothing_, the whole direction of this conversation is that she's not better. She had a flashback, and she collapsed – and none of you _told me_?"

"Had you returned Detective Ryan's call on Thursday, then you would have been told. Since you chose not to do that, you were not. Why Detective Beckett did not tell you, I cannot say. Why you did not return Detective Ryan's call, only you can say." She put her glasses down on the desk. "If you believe she lied to you, I am surprised that you still wish to be her partner." Her fingers clasped. "However, _if_ Detective Beckett has hidden her memory of that day for this long, I am certain that she would have had a good reason. I suggest you ask her what that is."

Castle frankly stared. Gates hated him, and had made no secret of it. "Why are you saying that?"

"Because, Mr Castle, however much I disapprove of you, it is perfectly obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain that Detective Beckett relies very heavily upon your stability."

"Uh?"

"I have taken considerable pains not to notice anything officially. However, whatever her reasons for concealing the truth of that day – if she indeed did conceal it and was not merely bluffing – it was not a lack of regard for you." Gates's tone implied that Beckett's judgement and taste in the matter was considerably lacking.

"Uh?"

"You are dismissed, Mr Castle."

"But…"

"Out!"

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Thank you especially to LordOfKavaka, for the cover art._

_There are 30 chapters, in total, for those guests who have asked._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He went, not sure which way was up any more. Beckett collapsed and nobody told him? He pulled out his phone. Ryan's call, which he hadn't returned, was… oh. Oh, shit. Thursday afternoon. He'd switched his phone off because he was planning his trip to Vegas, and ignored it because he'd thought it could wait till he was back. And he'd ignored Beckett's absence and not asked about her Friday morning because she'd shattered his world and he couldn't deal with the pain of her not even bothering to show up and talk to him, after which he couldn't stand to talk to her, even, till he'd fixed his feelings. So he'd taken off to Vegas that afternoon and not got back till this morning, and _now_ he found out that Beckett had been benched, which was why he hadn't seen her on Friday. He'd thought she simply didn't have the guts to face him. He'd never suspected she'd been put on leave.

_And_ she was still suffering with PTSD and he _hadn't known_. Or maybe… she hadn't known. There hadn't been a single sign of it since the sniper case, and he'd have noticed: he'd been watching out for her.

His mind skittered to Gates's final sentences. _Relies on your stability. Not a lack of regard for you_. Unpicked, that sounded very much like Gates was trying to tell him something without having to admit to it: in fact, it sounded very much like Gates telling him that Beckett's feelings were not appropriate for a co-worker – except he wasn't a co-worker, so that wouldn't matter…would it? Fraternisation was not encouraged, to say the least… oh. _I have taken considerable pains not to notice anything officially_. Gates thought that Beckett definitely had considerable feelings for him.

But in that case, why would she lie about remembering? Why not just tell him?

Why not, he abruptly thought, go ask her? She couldn't be here, so he'd have to go there. Or call her back, perhaps. But why hadn't she simply said on the voicemail that she'd been benched?

First, get the download from the boys about what actually happened on Friday. Because it didn't sound like it was a minor problem at all any more, and indefinite leave until cleared sounded much, much worse than that. He tapped Ryan's number.

"Ryan? Where are you now?"

He got the address, and raced there.

"What happened on Thursday?" he blurted, not waiting for a greeting.

"You don't _know_?"

"No."

"How don't you know? You were in Observation. I saw you go in."

"I'd left. What happened?"

Esposito took over. "Beckett fell apart."

Ryan picked up the story. "It looked like she had a PTSD episode, but we don't know. She was out of it" –

"Out of it? What? How long? What _happened_?"

"She was out of it for a half hour anyway," Ryan said. "Then Gates started on her and it happened again. And then we didn't see her and Gates said she'd sent her home sick." He gazed searchingly at Castle. "How come you don't know this already?"

"Beckett didn't tell me anything." Which wasn't a lie, just nothing like the whole truth.

"Dumb of her."

Castle's evasion passed unchallenged.

"Why'd Gates want to see you?"

"To rip me a new one about Beckett."

Espo and Ryan winced in instant sympathy.

"She did it to us too. Tore us apart for not being a team this morning."

"Yeah. Same here. And then she told me I wasn't a partner to Beckett either."

"She what?" The shock on the other men's faces was balm to Castle's seared soul. "She's crazy. You've been Beckett's partner the whole time. She'd never had a partner till you came along. Gates is out of her mind if she can't see that."

"Why'd she think that?" Ryan asked. "Though I hafta say, man, that bringing that blonde to the scene wasn't smart. What were you trying to do?"

"I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Sounds like the sort of idea you get after too much beer."

"Yeah." Scotch had had a lot to do with it, for sure.

"Boy, you two are dumb." Espo scowled impartially at the surroundings. "Trying to make her jealous won't work – she'll just go off and hide. Anyway, we got a case. Can't call her. We've been told to leave her alone."

"Is _indefinite leave_ normal?" Castle asked, suddenly remembering Gates's words.

"No." Ryan's face creased in thought. "That's not normal at all. And even if Beckett was on leave, she'd be calling in. She's not good at letting go."

"She hasn't called you?" Castle queried.

"Nope."

Oh, shit. And she hadn't contacted him since Friday, either. The call on Thursday… oh, _shit_. That... could have been her trying to tell him. She'd expected him to call back, so she wouldn't have said much on the message, because she didn't know that he'd heard or what it had done to him. So he hadn't answered. _But_ he couldn't have known. He firmly put away any guilt. She'd hidden her memory of everything that day for all this time, when she knew how he felt.

She'd tried to hide her PTSD, and pretty much succeeded till the sniper case…. Oh, _shit_. Even then she'd never actually admitted to the problem. Blocked it out, blocked the team out, hidden it… pretended she was just fine when she wasn't fine at all.

He was on the verge of working out something that really mattered, when Ryan poked him in the ribs. "You okay? You look a bit zoned out."

"Yeah." The almost-realisation skidded away.

"Look, we don't need you here. Go see if Beckett's okay. If you don't, you'll just mope about it anyway, and that won't help us solve this murder."

"I do not mope!" Castle said indignantly.

"Yeah, right." Ryan gave him a shove. "Go. You won't be any help till you've got your head straight."

"And then come back and tell us what's going on."

Castle looked around, hailed a passing cab, and left, giving the driver his own address. He suddenly felt the need to have a shower, and to retrieve his car from Jacinta.

Retrieving the car was simple, and he and Jacinta parted on good terms, though it was pretty plain that she would have liked the terms to be even better. Still, he wasn't interested. Casual hook-ups weren't going to solve his issues, and however worried he was about what had happened, he was still hurt, angry and upset. He stood in his shower, trying to let some of his anger and pain wash away along with the taint of a little too much Scotch.

He dried himself with pruny hands, and decided to start with a text to Beckett – more neutral than a call, and far less risk of him losing his temper with her. He sent the message, and tried to distract himself with writing. It didn't work.

When he hadn't had a response to his text from Beckett after almost three hours, Castle was far more annoyed than worried. She had no right to be silent when she had to be climbing the walls with boredom. She had no right not to reply when he'd (now) replied to her. She should have seized on the opportunity for some company and entertainment, or indeed a proper talk, but no, he wasn't even good enough for that. As time ticked by, his temper continued to rise, until at last it outweighed everything else and he was mad enough to go and have the whole thing out with her. He wasn't going to be a puppy on a leash. She could explain her own misbehaviour and then _he'd_ decide if he could live with that.

He hammered on the door of her apartment, in a temper the like of which only Beckett had ever induced in him, and when there wasn't an instant reply, hammered again.

"Quiet, you!" someone shushed him. "Trying to get my baby to sleep."

"Oh… sorry." He remembered that particular hell.

"She's not here."

"What?"

"Not here." There was a wail from behind the woman, and she winced. "Went a few hours ago. Looked like she was taking a vacation."

"Oh. Look, sorry about waking your baby."

"If only you had," the woman said tiredly. "I can't get her to sleep to start with."

"I'm quite good with babies," Castle said, wanting to make up for his disturbance. The woman looked at him like he might be an axe murderer.

"It's okay, thanks," she said, and retreated rapidly. He heard her door lock.

The interlude had calmed him, but the information didn't improve anything about the day. He was bitterly aware that, after she had been shot, Beckett had fled both Manhattan and all known human interaction the minute she was capable of leaving her hospital bed – and she'd just pulled the same trick again. He added that annoyance to the ever-lengthening list of matters to which he was _damn well going to get answers_ even if he had to choke them out of her, and stalked back out of the apartment block.

As he went home, an annoying sense of an idea just out of his reach buzzed around his brain, and refused to settle on a perch and be examined.

At home, however, his irritation could be expressed in tenderising the meat, shredding the salad leaves, and chopping the vegetables, all of which actions were somewhat soothing and allowed him to have a pleasant dinner without snapping at his family.

After dinner, he coolly took possession of the remains of his bottle of wine, of which his mother had drunk far too much, and retired to his study to contemplate his silent, message-free phone.

It didn't take his irritation long to resurge. He would call, just once, and then he would bribe, beg, or browbeat the boys into locating Beckett, after which he was going to find her and extract answers by any means possible or legal, including holding her coffee hostage. The thought, vengeful as it had started out, gave him the first true, if twisted, smile in five days.

He picked up the phone, and tapped Beckett's number. It went to voicemail. He stared at it, confused. If she hadn't declined the call, she always answered. Always. He called again, with the same result, and left a message. Then he texted. Then he shot evil aliens on-line while he waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, in a foul mood, he went to bed, and woke several times, which left him in a much worse mood when he rose and found no response whatsoever.

* * *

"Hey, bro."

"Beckett's gone." Castle didn't bother with any greeting.

Ryan dropped his pen. Espo swore.

"Gone?"

"Gone. The neighbour said she'd gone on vacation."

"Don't believe it." Espo's flat tone and suddenly cold eyes left the other men worried. "No way she'd take vacation."

"No," Ryan agreed. "This is not good."

"Have either of you heard from her?"

"No," they said in tandem.

"Nor me. I think she's gone off like she did in the summer."

Esposito swore under his breath for a full minute. More surprisingly, so did Ryan.

"And we all know how well _that_ went," Ryan said.

"What the fuck is she playing at?" Espo asked the air. Ryan twitched. "Bro?"

"Just… I don't think she's playing at anything. All she does is work. And Gates took that away. You _know_ what she's like. Work first, work last, work every time something's wrong. Something's wrong, and now she can't work." He winced. "That's her only coping mechanism, and Gates burned it."

Castle stared from one cop to the other. "What are you saying?" But he knew.

"No work, no cope."

"Unless you can get to her."

"She asked where you were, Thursday," Ryan recalled.

"And you're only just telling me now? Why didn't you tell me Friday?"

"You were dealing with your own shit," Espo defended.

"And then there was the case."

"And we thought it was just one day, and she'd be back."

"Except it's not. And she isn't. And none of us know where she is because she's disappeared again." Castle's fists were clenched. "But you could find out." His voice dropped, inaudible two feet away. "You could track her phone. Or her cruiser."

"Are you going to go find her?"

Castle paused. Was he? Where was the point in going after someone who'd lied for months and months, whose only reaction to problems was to hide, who probably wouldn't ever care the way he had, and did? And there was the crux of the matter. He did care. If she didn't, she could have the guts to tell him, as she hadn't yet, face to face. His shoulders set heavily: his face bleak.

"Yeah. So let's find her so I know where I'm going." _Let's finish this dance, one way or another._

* * *

Beckett left the motel late, barely making the checkout time. She'd been distracted and slow, and pulled over for coffee before she'd gone ten miles on her journey. She added a pastry, but chewing was an effort she could hardly be bothered to make, and in the end she only ate half. The rest lay on the passenger seat, for later.

By late afternoon, she was almost there, not hurrying, not caring. It wasn't as if anyone would be there when she arrived. There was always a kettle, and coffee; there was always something in the freezer. If not, well, a missed meal wouldn't kill her. She didn't count how many meals she'd already forgotten to eat, since Thursday. She hadn't looked at her phone, and hadn't realised it was dead.

She pulled up at the cabin, drifted out of the car and opened up, drifted inside, and sank down on to the couch. It took her a long time to remember that she should bring in her suitcase, and still longer to do it. She drifted further, into the kitchen to make a coffee, desultorily nibbled on the now-stale pastry and didn't notice, dragged upstairs and, with effort, made her bed; finally falling on to it, barely managing to remove her sneakers, to fall asleep.

* * *

"I can't get a ping off her phone no matter what I do," Ryan complained, barely above a whisper. "I don't think it's on. The last location I've got is close enough to her apartment that it must have been there, but we know she's gone."

"Can't you track her car? I thought all the cars had some sort of GPS locator now."

Ryan tapped, and fretted, and tapped some more. Castle fretted and fidgeted and fussed, until Ryan's patience gave out.

"Go get coffee, or something. Or go annoy Espo. You're not helping."

Castle marched off, bubbling over with ill-controlled anger fuelled by fear. Phone off, leaving Manhattan, cutting all contact… it was terrifyingly similar to the summer. He was recalled from his mire of miserable fury by Ryan's soft whoop.

"Got it!"

Castle reached his desk in two strides. "Where?" He looked at the map on the screen. "Where the hell is _that_?"

"Well," Ryan said dryly, "go to the back of beyond and take a right, then keep going."

Castle wasn't in the mood for jokes. "Where is it?" he bit.

"Don't shit all over me because you're worried. We're all worried. Look at the map and work it out."

"Titusville Mountain State Forest?" He zoomed out, and out, and out. "Is that even still in the States?"

"Barely."

"What the fuck?" Esposito's comment added nothing to the sum of intelligence. "She's crazy."

"She's hiding."

"Crazy." It was difficult to disagree.

"Who is crazy, Detectives?" They all three jumped like jackrabbits at Gates's query.

"Our killer, sir."

Gates's sceptical expression didn't convey her belief in their veracity. Fortunately Ryan had minimised the map as soon as she had spoken, and all that her tour of his desk could see was a list of phone records which might be useful.

Gates stalked off, and Ryan reopened the map. "Better write down the co-ordinates," he suggested. "Doesn't look like there'll be many signs up there."

"Probably written in Viking runes," Castle said bitterly.

"Thought you could read runes," Espo jibed gently.

"Only in Elvish," Castle answered automatically, setting the co-ordinates into his phone along with the sparse details of the address.

"So not cool."

Castle ignored that, and tapped. "Six hours, minimum. If I go now, I won't be there till late evening."

"You still want to go?"

"Yeah." His lips snapped shut after the word.

"You don't look too happy 'bout it."

"Would you be? You didn't sound too happy about her running off again either."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one who took off for the weekend and came back with a stacked bottle blonde. Wanna explain how you stopped watching Beckett lay into a lowlife just before she collapsed, went dark all the rest of the day, and took off straight after the arrest? What went down?"

"Don't you know?"

"No. Beckett didn't say anything to us and Gates isn't telling either, except that she had a PTSD episode."

"Spill."

"No." Both detectives stared at the harsh response. "It's between Beckett and me and that's all."

Ryan muttered something which Castle couldn't quite hear, though it might have been _kiss her and stop all this messing around_. On the other hand, the first word might not have been _kiss_.

"If you wanna be there before midnight, better get going."

"Yeah. See you."

Castle marched out, unhappy about the whole situation, angry with Beckett, angry with himself, just plain angry at the world. An hour later, he was smoothly pulling through the Holland Tunnel, encapsulated in his comfortable Mercedes, surrounded by a toxic cloud of anger. He put on a heavy rock playlist, and took his annoyance out in deafening singing: less tuneful and more shouting than he would normally achieve. An hour later, he had a sore throat, but he felt better. He allowed the playlist to cycle on to musicals, and sang along with those too.

He pulled over at a truck stop north of Albany, about halfway there, took a comfort break and coffee, and considered the time. He'd still got miles to go before he slept, though all the promises he'd thought he had received were broken. Still, he'd told Gates that whatever she'd done, he was Beckett's partner, and he wouldn't be forsworn on that front. The rest… there didn't seem to be any other fronts available. He tried a call, unsure why he bothered, but all he got was voicemail, again.

He kept on driving, ever further north, speeding whenever he thought he could get away with it; shaving time at every turn. Eight came and went, nine came, and half-past went: after ten, he left the interstate and turned down ever smaller, darker roads, headlights on full beam, illuminating the trees and occasional scampering wildlife.

Finally, he turned down a tiny drive, bumping over unseen ruts and stones, barely wide enough for his Mercedes, and stopped at a dark house: unlit, unwelcoming.

_You have reached your destination_, the satnav said smoothly.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Beckett hadn't moved from her bed since she'd lain down on it, mid-afternoon. She was weary, and now that she no longer needed to concentrate on the road, the memories flooded back. As dark fell, no starlight pierced the trees around the cabin, no moon glimmered in the clear, cold sky. The night was absolute.

The nightmares took her.

A time later, she woke, whimpering and sweating, balled up and tangled into the sheets, the coverlet on the floor; woke, and saw the dark night through the window, curtain undrawn; dried the thin, salty streaks on her face, stripped her old jeans and shirt, found a soft t-shirt in which to rest, and slept again; tormented throughout. She couldn't stop it: she had no reserves left: had spent them all on trying to fix herself and, trying to mend herself by main force and denial, had never realised that she wasn't fixing but merely masking. Eventually, her house of cards had fallen, having no foundation, beams or joists to hold it firm.

Work had always given her strength and structure, and now that had been withdrawn from her. Castle had given her hope, and hope had died four days ago. She turned in her tangled sheets, and sank soundlessly below the surface of her terrors.

* * *

Castle flicked a glance at the luminous numbers of his watch, and discovered it was only one minute later than the last time he had done so. Now that he was here, his resolve to obtain answers was shrinking fast. He gathered his nerve, and told himself firmly that answers would give him an ending, one way or another. The dance was done, the music ended: the fragile shell of their understanding broken. He stepped out of his car, locked it, and walked up the three steps to the door.

When he set hand upon the knocker, the door opened. He realised, appalled, that it hadn't been locked, or even properly shut. It didn't stop him walking in, without announcing his presence. Rather than switch a light on, he flicked on the flashlight on his phone, and looked around, searching for some clues to Beckett's presence and mood.

There was a crumpled blanket on the couch; a used coffee cup on the table beside it. There was no plate, only a few scattered pastry flakes. He entered the kitchen, where there was no evidence of cooking or eating. The fridge contained nothing: no milk, no vegetables, no salad or meat. Three years of bringing Beckett coffee had taught Castle that she far preferred milk in her coffee – latte, for preference – than black; the absence of milk didn't reassure him at all. Not that he was reassured by any of this mess: nothing had reassured him since her words in Interrogation.

Apart from the dirty coffee cup and blanket, there was no trace of habitation at all. If it hadn't been for those two items, Castle would have thought that Beckett wasn't there. There wasn't even a book or Kindle lying around, or a phone, and he had never seen Beckett's living quarters without books, Kindle, or phone. Her car had been here, though. He clung to that lifeline. Her car was here, therefore, so was she.

Except he hadn't been silent – quiet, but certainly not silent – and his flashlight was on, and yet she hadn't come to see what was going on: gun drawn, intimidation on max. His Beckett was always on alert, always ready – _his_? Surely he wasn't still clinging to that delusion? She wasn't _his_, so why he was here at all escaped him.

He sat down on the couch, and tried to understand why, when he'd promised himself he wouldn't be her puppy coming to heel, the very minute that he'd known that something was truly wrong he'd demanded that Ryan find her, any way possible, and then taken off on a six hour drive, three hundred and fifty miles north, to the back end of nowhere. Sure, he'd told himself that it was to get answers from her, but he could simply have called, and kept calling till she answered. So why was he even here?

Because he'd told Gates the truth. _Whatever_ she'd done, they were partners. And partners had each other's back. Even if there was nothing more, he was a better man than to leave his partner to drown when she needed a lifebelt. When she was on shore again, he could dial back, tail off, leave. Start a new life.

It was a terrible shame that he knew he was lying. If he hadn't known it, he could have kept pretending that he really meant it. Somehow, over the last three years, his brain had rewired to include Beckett in his family: the people for whom he'd do anything, no matter their behaviour; the people that, try as he might, he couldn't, couldn't ever, stop loving.

Fuck.

He sat on the couch, staring into the darkness, flashlight off to save the battery until he could retrieve his charger and find a socket to plug it into, heavy-shouldered and bent, leaning on his knees.

His lumpen misery was pierced by the creak of wood, and an almost-inaudible whimper. He didn't try to resist: padding up the stairs, minimising any noise, keeping the flashlight pointed downward. He pushed on a door, to find only an empty room, tried the door across the corridor, and found a bathroom, and finally a door from behind which he could hear shallow, harried breathing. He entered, still keeping the flashlight low.

The bed was a mess: sheets untucked and rumpled, coverlet on the floor, pillows scattered. Beckett lay in the centre of the chaos, a small dark ball of tension and sweat, asleep, but anything but peaceful. Her face was contorted, her arms and legs drawn in tightly. She whimpered again: the sound of a suffering animal, and then her eyes opened.

"You came," she said. "I needed you and you came…" But her eyes weren't focusing and she wasn't truly awake. She shook her head. "No, still dreaming. You didn't come." She shut her eyes. "I took too long. Just a dream. I missed my chance." She turned away, tangles of hair staining the pillow, and was silent. "I needed you so much…" she whispered into the pillow, and her body went limp; asleep again.

Castle padded out, clutching his shattering composure around him. He made it downstairs without falling, switched off the flashlight again, in case Beckett should wake and notice it, and fell back on to the couch.

She'd needed him. But she'd lied to him. But she needed him. But she'd lied to him. But she'd said _took too long_. What had taken too long? Well, how about telling him the truth? That had taken too long – _ten fucking months_ too long. But _missed my chance_? Chance to do what? Tell him the truth? That was certainly one good answer. Right now, it seemed the only likely answer, because the answer _chance to be with Castle_, however delightful it might otherwise have been, wasn't backed up by any evidence. Even his ability to spin a credible story from nothing was straining.

He sat, silent, the woods quiet around the cabin, except for the trees rustling, the hoot of an owl…the soft sounds of muffled crying – what?

He padded back upstairs, hating himself for his own weakness: his inability to let her be, as she had so clearly signalled she wanted. In the dim glow of the half-covered flashlight, she was asleep, still tightly curled and tense, tears trailing down her cheeks to one of the crumpled pillows. Stupidly, he traced the line with a thick, delicate finger, looking down at the gleam of misery.

Something penetrated. She turned to his touch, a hand emerged from her cramped position and went to her cheek, exactly where his finger had been a moment before. For an instant, she'd eased – and then her questing finger found nothing and she retreated into her nightmare again, face crumpling and another slow tear creeping from under her eyelid.

Castle slipped out again. He couldn't stand to see Beckett think he was there and then be disappointed. But if he was so necessary – why had she lied? If he was so necessary – why had she dropped off the grid and thereby signalled that they should all let her be?

Or was she signalling something else entirely?

It was all far too complicated for close on midnight, after a long drive. He was thirsty, and tired, and he had no desire at all to get back in his car and drive to a motel or inn. He found a glass in the kitchen and tipped down several refills of cold water, which relieved his incipient headache. Then he padded upstairs to the other bedroom, found with some amazement that there were blankets, sheets and pillowcases, made the bed, washed himself with more haste than effort, slipped between the cold covers and the colder sheet and shivered himself to sleep.

Castle woke far too early for his own comfort: the light trickling through the uncurtained window. He looked at his watch, discovered it was barely seven, and wished heartily that he was neither awake nor there at the cabin. He had no more idea of what to do than he'd had last night.

He couldn't hear anything when he used the bathroom, and couldn't hear anything when he went back downstairs to make himself coffee – black, of which he was less fond – and while he sat at the kitchen table to drink it. It was a beautiful morning: leaves springing to verdant life on the surrounding trees, bright sunshine pouring through the windows and illuminating the light décor. The universe had no sense of dramatic fitness, he thought bitterly, and drained his mug to go out and find his laptop. He might as well do something useful with the morning.

Surprisingly, inspiration, albeit of a bitter, twisted variety, was not far to seek. Lost in dark creations, Castle failed to notice time passing until the coffee wore off and thirst pulled him from his pages. He made himself more coffee, took a break, stretched, found that the sunshine outside was deceptive, as the cool wind bit through his sweater and returned for a second nip, and then realised that it was close to eleven and there had – he assumed – been no sound or sight of Beckett.

Beckett was an early bird, or always seemed to be: in early, hard at work long before Castle arrived. It was possible, he supposed, that off-duty she liked to sleep in, but close to eleven seemed extremely unlikely. She might, he mused more bleakly, have roused, come down, seen him and disappeared again, without so much as a word – but more likely she'd have unleashed the worst of her temper upon him, and thrown him out. She had, after all, done so every time he'd crossed her boundaries: therefore, she hadn't emerged.

He left his mug in the kitchen, and went upstairs, not troubling to be quiet; but there was no noise of rousing, no sharp query or, as likely as words, no protrusion of the barrel of her gun. There was nothing at all.

Castle peered round the half-opened door, and saw only the tight ball of Beckett, part-covered by a sheet. He stepped in, but she didn't move: her back to him. Walking around the bed, the room was as bare as downstairs had been: a hold-all which hadn't been unpacked, yesterday's clothes stranded on the floor, shoes askew. Now that he looked in daylight, there was a thin trail of dried teardrops marring her white cheek, no colour in her lips. Haggard, and hag-ridden. She didn't appear to be rested at all: her eyes were still shut and her breathing shallow and uneven, but she must have been asleep for more than twelve hours, which couldn't be normal.

He patted her shoulder. Nothing happened, so he shook, gently, which produced a mumbled incomprehensibility and no evidence of opening eyes. He tried again, harder, which still failed. He dropped his hands and stepped back. Shaking her awake wasn't working. He didn't want to startle her, when he had no idea what was going on in her concrete skull. He plumped down on the edge of the bed, behind her, and stroked a broad finger along her cheek and jaw: almost a caress. That close to her, he couldn't distinguish between wanting to curl around her, cradle her and never let her go; or shaking her until her head fell off for her perfidy. The soft touch worked, where patting had not. An eyelid twitched, and slowly rose; the second followed.

Absolutely nothing else happened. Beckett's dead, empty eyes stared at the wall. She made no further move to rouse, nor did she turn her head to look about her.

Castle's patience, never more than thirty seconds long, expired in rather less than ten seconds.

"Beckett!" he rapped. As soon as he'd said it, he regretted his tone. She stiffened… and then fell back into her horrible laxity. "Beckett!" he tried again, less of an order, more of an exclamation.

This time, she turned, and saw: delight spread over her face – and then she turned away again, back held tight, but he heard a tiny noise and then her shoulders shuddered.

"Not real…" she dragged, and tugged the sheet over herself, only a few dark, damp tendrils visible. She didn't bother hiding her grief, which told Castle far more about his supposed unreality than he liked. He rose, walked round to the other side of the bed, and sat down again.

"I'm real." She didn't respond. He flicked the sheet from her face and put both hands on her shaking shoulders. "I'm real and I'm here."

"Took too long." She turned again, into the pillow.

"_I_ took too long?" Castle erupted. "You didn't fucking tell me you remembered for _ten fucking months_ and _I_ took too long? The hell with all of that."

He stormed down the stairs, snatched up his laptop, and was in his car in seconds, pulling out and on to the small drive and then the ill-maintained road, incandescently angry at Beckett and himself.

It wasn't until he hit the third pothole with a spine-jarring thud that he remembered that she'd said _took too long_ the previous night – and she had said that _she_ had taken too long.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck _fuck_.

He pulled over, and cut the engine, and knocked his head against the wheel. Now what? The woman fried his brain till he couldn't think straight, every time; she pushed all his buttons even when she was barely conscious.

He awkwardly turned the car around in the narrow road, wondering frantically which of them she had meant this morning: knowing, deep in his heart, that in her semi-conscious state, where she hadn't believed he was there, she had meant the same as the previous night. _She'd_ been too late.

And he'd just confirmed it.

* * *

Beckett heard the hammering of furious feet on the floor through a thin haze of unhappiness, unable to summon any energy to call him back. If he'd been there at all. She'd had so many flashbacks since Interrogation that she couldn't tell if he'd really been there or not. Her muzzed brain and misery said _not_. She briefly rose, staggering to the bathroom, refilled her water glass and drank some, then returned to staring at the ceiling. It had no answers, but then, nor did she. She didn't care.

Nothing really mattered any more. She supposed she'd get up, eventually, but it was too much effort now. She did manage to pull the quilt over herself, but it didn't make her any warmer. Later, when she could be bothered, she'd think about her resignation. She should have done it after the sniper case, really, but then she hadn't had any more flashbacks and she'd thought it had been cured. How wrong could she have been?

That time, the team had got her through This time… nobody had contacted her. No help. One chance, and she'd used it up. They'd moved on, and she was still stuck, not fixed, not capable. Gates was likely going to fire her anyway, so she might as well get her resignation in first.

She stared at the ceiling some more. A spider had built a web in the corner. She didn't feel inclined to clean it, or emulate its work ethic. Try again hadn't worked. She sank back into herself.

* * *

It took him rather longer to return to the Beckett cabin than it had to reach the point he had: driving less furiously and trying not to break the suspension on the potholes. It wasn't until he pulled up again that he realised that he hadn't closed the door behind him – and that, forty minutes later, it was still swinging open.

He barrelled into the cabin – but did take a second to shut the door – and then continued on straight upstairs with a thundering of his feet on the wooden stairs and floor.

Beckett was lying on her back, under the quilt, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. For one terrible moment he thought that she was dead, but then she blinked. Castle clattered around the bed to drop down next to her –

She didn't so much as shift her gaze.

"Beckett? Beckett, wake up! It's me."

"No…"

"Yes, it is me."

Whatever the discussion they would be having, however angry he was at her lying – he couldn't let her drift away into her own head like this.

"Oh." She still didn't move. "Why?" It didn't sound as if she cared about the answer. Castle pulled her up by the shoulders and stared at her.

"Why? _Why?_ Because I'm your _partner_!"

"Not now." His hands on her shoulders were the only things holding her upright. If he had released her, she'd have slumped back on to the pillows.

"What?"

"It's done. No more cop. No partner. No team. No point."

He let go in utter shock, and she fell back. "Done?" he repeated. "I thought you were on indefinite medical leave?"

"Doesn't matter. It's done. Go home."

"And what are you going to do? Stay here and rot?"

"Yes."

It dropped like a bomb between them, but it was Castle who exploded.

"No, you are _not_. I'm not sitting here and watching you dribble your life down the drain. You're going to get up, wash, and come downstairs. And then you're going to drink some coffee and we are going to _talk_."

She simply turned her back to him, pulled the quilt around her, and ignored him. Castle's much-tried temper shattered. He simply picked her up, with the bedclothes, and carted her to the bathroom, where he dropped the whole bundle in the shower and put his hand on the control.

"In three seconds I'm switching it on. Up to you if the quilt gets soaked." He paused. "One…two…"

The quilt became detached from Beckett, and hit Castle's feet.

"Three."

The water went on. Beckett screeched.

"You _sonofabitch_! It's freezing!"

She stood up, her t-shirt dripping and plastered to her skin. In other circumstances, Castle would have appreciated the view. There and then, he was more concerned about his imminent death.

"Get out."

"I'll be outside the door. If you don't come out in a reasonable time, I'll come in and fetch you."

The only response was a slam of the shower enclosure. Castle took the quilt with him, and reflected that it might have been suicidal, but it had worked.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers. _


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Beckett stood in the shower, shaking with sheer rage. She hated cold water. She hated absolutely everything right then, and she _especially _hated Castle. Fortunately, the water had now warmed. She became aware that she would be much better off if she washed herself, and if she washed her hair, which was hanging lank and revolting around her head.

She washed herself and her hair, but couldn't face shaving her legs or under her arms, and carefully didn't reflect that Castle had been right to throw her out of bed and into the shower. He had no right to be here at all. He'd given up as soon as he'd seen the flashback and that was that.

And on that thought she sat down hard in the shower with the water still running and her arms locked around her bent legs, with her head down so her forehead rested on her knees. Simply thinking about the flashback was enough to send her shaking and terrified: her lungs closing and a memory of agonising pain in her chest; someone pressing hard on her ribs and it hurt hurt hurt and they were crying and begging and _don't shake me no I'll bleed out if you shake me don't…_

"Kate! Kate, come back! Kate, wake up!" Castle pulled her out of the shower, wrapped her in a towel without looking at her, and kept shaking till her eyes were alive again. "Kate? Beckett, talk to me!"

She fell into him. He hadn't realised, hadn't known: nothing Gates or the boys had said had prepared him for this. He hadn't seen this on the sniper case: she'd never shown it, never let him see it. He suddenly wondered about the bandage on her arm, when she'd simply said that she'd dropped a glass and cut herself clearing it up. He wondered how true that had been.

And while all that wondering was going on, his arms ignored his brain and tucked her close and never, ever wanted to let her go. His mind, however, found that she was rigid and shuddering; clearly terrified and most likely cold. Early April wasn't warm, this far north. He took the line of least resistance (and the one which his subconscious was screaming for him to accept) and wrapped her in more closely. He was never cold, so could warm her.

"Kate, wake up!"

Finally her body eased. Her head dropped to his shoulder. "You came… I needed you and you came…" There was a ghastly pause as she tried to step back. "You didn't come. I called and you didn't answer. You'd gone." She tried to step away again.

"You lied." But he was still holding her close. "You told me you didn't remember, but you remembered everything."

"Yeah." She tugged hard, and he let go. "I did. Every instant of the bullet going through my lung and heart. Every instant of you pressing down and hurting me so bad to try and save me. Every instant of you crying and everyone yelling and screaming and not being able to breathe and _dying_." She slumped. "I remember what it feels like to die."

She was silent, for a moment. "Why would I ever want to remember dying? I wanted so badly to forget." Another horrible silence. "I tried so hard to forget everything."

She started to move away. Castle stood, rooted to the floor, for two of her steps. He'd never thought of the _rest_ of that occasion. He'd only ever thought that she'd heard him and discounted it… but she'd _died_. Been shot in the heart and _died_, and who _wouldn't_ want to forget everything about those agonised moments as the last lights went out? Even… even his declaration.

"I can't live if I remember dying." She'd reached the top of the stairs, dividing the upper floor. "And I can't forget no matter how hard I tried and pretended and wanted to." One step beyond. "I thought I had." Another step. "And then there was that case." And another. "And then I tried so hard to forget it all again." A fourth. "And then that guy tried to tell me that trauma makes you forget. _If only_," she cried. "If only it did."

Castle moved before her foot had landed on the fifth step, and caught her by the sixth. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Tell you? Tell you I wanted to forget _everything_? What would you have done? You already gave up because I took too long and I can't forget dying. All you'd have heard is that I wanted to forget what you said" – he started. "Oh. _That's_ it. That's why you thought I lied. Because I didn't want to know." She stopped again. "You were right. For all the wrong reasons, but you were right. I didn't want to remember anything _because all I can remember is dying_!"

She yanked herself away and fled the remaining steps to her bedroom. Castle didn't hesitate before taking a few long strides and catching up before she could shut the door and probably lock it. He hit her door as she began to close it, and slammed in behind her.

"You don't _get_ to run away like this. You don't _get_ to pretend you're fine and then tell me you remember every moment of dying and you can't forget! _You should have told me!_"

"Why? I'd _got _one messed up life. Why would I mess up another one?"

"Uh?" Castle stopped in his tracks, halfway between the door and Beckett, currently on the other side of the bed, as if it were a shield.

"I already needed to have you there so I was getting through the day," she confessed, and almost fell to the bed. "I thought I was getting better and I wouldn't have to _take_. Except I wasn't, and it took too long, and" –

"Too long?"

"You gave up," she said simply. "You saw I wasn't better and you gave up." She smiled sadly. "I would have too. You had to move on."

Castle took a breath, preparatory to unloading – and then exhaled slowly, and engaged brain. "I didn't see it."

"Huh?"

"I didn't see you collapse," he said, as simply as she had. "I left when you said you remembered. I didn't see – I wasn't there, after that. I didn't know until Monday, when Gates hauled me in and" – he censored the rest of that sentence in favour of – "told me."

Beckett's mouth fell open.

"I only knew that you'd lied for months." He straightened. "What did you expect?"

She shrugged. "Did it matter how long? You'd have gone if I said I didn't want to remember anything and you're gone now that you know I lied. Either way, you're gone. This way" – she stopped.

"This way what?"

Another shrug. "This way at least you were there for a while," she mumbled, and turned away.

Castle was in front of her in an eye-blink. His brain had been processing everything he'd thought he knew – and everything Beckett had said or not-said since he'd got there. "You – you wanted to be fixed. To forget everything so you could start again. With me," he said with utter confidence. "And just before we got interrupted, you thought you were fixed and you were going to say…something. About things you don't…want…to…put…off – you really were going to start _us_."

Her voice was totally controlled. "But it would have been a lie." Her hair was hiding her face. "Because I wasn't fixed and I can't forget and I lied anyway. It would have fallen apart whatever."

Castle couldn't think of anything to say which wouldn't have been wrong. So instead of saying anything, he sat down beside her, put an arm around her, and turned her into him: stroking her hair. She was shivering, still only wrapped in the towel. He pulled the quilt from where he'd left it heaped on the bed, and snugged it around her. "Keep you warm."

She drew it closer, and didn't speak. She was tense, huddled: not quite pulling away but still, somehow, retreating; back to that horrible non-presence.

"Don't run away. We can" –

"_Don't_ say we can fix this. We _can't_ fix this. Don't you think I was trying? I can't fix me and neither can you. I tried everything and it hasn't worked. You can't mend this with a comforting story. Nothing fixes dying: don't you get it?"

"Except you're _not dead_!" he shouted. "You're not dead so this _is_ fixable!"

She muttered something.

"What?"

"Why bother?"

He sat there, utterly stunned.

"There's no point any more. Gates is going to fire me, unless I get my resignation in first; and nobody cares whether I'm there or not. So why bother? I'll just stay up here." She shrugged, yet again. "Better go home, Castle. There's nothing here you want. Story's over. The end." She pulled the quilt around her, blocking her from any touch.

"So you're giving up?"

"Yeah. I can't fight any more. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of all of it." She slumped into the quilt, and closed her eyes.

"You can't give up."

"Why not?"

"Because there are people who care about you."

"Name one. Apart from my dad, who'd be happy if I gave up the NYPD."

"Ryan. Espo. Lanie."

"None of whom cared enough to find out or get in touch after."

"Me."

"Once upon a time, maybe. You cared for who you thought I was. Not who I am. You wanted a hero. Someone who can leap tall buildings and still laugh at your jokes. That's not me." Her voice was flat and dead. "I'm just the woman who lied to you."

"So why am I here, then? If all you think is that I don't care 'cause you lied, or because you're not a hero, _why am I here_?"

"To finish it. To have an ending. Just like any of your books, you want to have a definite ending."

"No. I came because I couldn't _not_. I couldn't let you disappear again. This isn't an _ending_. I won't let it be." He bit his lip. "I came because whatever you do or say I still love you. It doesn't matter where or who you are, I still love you." He hesitated, and then went on. "And I think you love me too."

"It's too late."

"'Love is constant'," Castle quoted. "It's not too late." A pit yawned in his stomach, but he had to say it. "Unless you don't love me."

As the silence stretched out, ever more painful, he was sure he'd finally finished them. All she had to say was _no, I don't_. He dared to peek at her, but her head was down: stark pain in her shoulders and spine.

"You can't. You can't lie to my face and tell me you don't," he said with massive satisfaction, hoisted her up and dumped her in his lap. He tipped her chin up and found without surprise that tears were trickling down her cheeks. "You don't even want to lie. But you were trying to."

"I'm never going to be fixed."

"Bullshit."

"I've had almost a year of therapy and it's got me nowhere."

"Urk," Castle said inelegantly. "Therapy? I knew you were having physical therapy, but is that still going on?"

"Psychotherapy."

"Urk," he emitted again. She made a determined attempt to tug the quilt over her head. "To fix it?" She didn't take the open door to a sarcastic riposte. "_Talk _to me."

"It's too late. I can't do it any more."

"You _can_," he insisted.

"Why bother?"

"What? Because we can have something!"

"No. We can't. Because I'm too broken and it doesn't _matter_ how you feel because I can't do it. I _died_." Her voice dropped away. "I should have stayed dead."

"No!" His voice echoed through the whole house. "No. I'm not letting you. I didn't let you then and I'm not letting you now."

"You can't stop me."

The air froze around him. Had she really said that? "Did you mean that? You want to die?" She didn't look at him.

"No…" But she didn't sound convinced, or convincing. Castle's terror crystallised into hard resolve.

"I'm staying with you. I'm not leaving you alone."

"It's too late. There's nothing for you. I'll drag you down too. Go home. You can't fix this."

"There is something. You love me."

"_It's not enough_," she cried, agonised. "If it had been enough I'd be fixed. Don't you think I tried? I'll never be fixed and love doesn't fix it."

There was a long, bitter silence. Castle had no idea what to do, or say. He'd never heard Beckett totally defeated, till then. She'd always fought: never given up, no matter how hard the case or the crime…

Oh. Never given up, always fought – in work. The work she didn't have. The prop on which she'd leaned all the way through (he'd deduced this from many small comments, from dead Roy Montgomery, from Ryan, from Espo, from Lanie), every time her personal life became overwhelming, she'd buried herself in work to blot it out. Now… she couldn't. Gates had benched her, and in doing so, taken away Beckett's one reason for carrying on.

He sat there, still holding her, but she was absent: no words, no presence. She might as well have been the corpse she'd wished – still horrifyingly – she'd remained. _Love doesn't fix it_.

Castle…Castle didn't agree with that. But Beckett, who had found that love didn't fix her father, didn't solve murders – and often caused them – clearly did.

"I want to sleep," she said. "Leave me to sleep."

"Where's your gun?"

"Gates… Let me sleep."

"Okay," Castle said. Without her gun…nothing would happen. He laid her down, wrapped in the quilt, and looked around again. "Where's your phone?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Who cares? Don't need it. No-one's going to call."

Castle rifled through her bag, and didn't find her phone. "I'll let you sleep, then. But when you wake, I'll be here. With coffee," he added, with some effort, but she didn't smile, or react, already halfway to unconscious. He hadn't realised how much he relied on her smile at the thought of his coffee – until she didn't. She didn't even notice as he left the room. He glanced around, but couldn't see her keys: intending to search her car for anything…untoward.

Downstairs, he put the kettle on – though a stiff Scotch might have suited him better – and searched for her keys. He eventually found them, carelessly slid across the kitchen counter, and went out to search her car for her phone. It was there, blank-screened and dead on the passenger seat. She hadn't even taken it out of the car, still less charged it. He took it in, set it on his own charger, and made his coffee. When he had drunk it, he looked, quite deliberately, at Beckett's phone. There were unread items from… oh. Oh, _shit_. Monday. All his messages. Oh, shit. No wonder they couldn't track her phone. She'd let it run down. Or forgotten to charge it.

Or just not cared. She'd said that no-one had got in touch.

He picked up his phone, and called Ryan.

"Hey, man. How's Beckett?"

"Why didn't you or Espo call her?"

"When?"

"Anytime between Friday and now."

Ryan's voice dropped. "Friday we were catching the perp. Never call her when we're all off shift. Wouldn't pry into what happened anyway. She'd have shot us." Castle clearly heard him swallow. "Gates ordered us not to call, first thing Monday morning."

"She thinks none of us care."

"_What_? She can't think that. We've been there for all of us for years. She's nuts."

"Who's nuts?" Esposito's tones joined the party.

"Beckett," Ryan explained. "Thinks none of us care."

Esposito swore liberally and with expression. Most of the expressions he used, Castle had never heard.

"So you were ordered not to call?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Beckett's benched. If we called her, she'd work."

"But like I said," Ryan put in, "she copes with work."

"Yeah," Castle said heavily. "She does. But she hasn't got work, and she's not" – he gulped – "coping. So," he said over another round of emphatic expletives, "I want Gates's phone number. I need to talk to her."

"Rather you than me," Ryan said, "but I guess you know what you're doing." He read off the number, which Castle wrote down. "Uh… keep us in the loop, okay? We can't call her – no contact. Tell her…"

"Okay. Bye."

* * *

Captain Gates had not been oblivious to the angry, reproachful looks which the remainder of Detective Beckett's team had been throwing her way. However, she regarded the team's conduct as egregiously stupid and dangerous, and she had no mind to soften that blow. By concealing Beckett's issues, they had endangered themselves and Beckett. She didn't exclude the civilian consultant from blame, either. Why the man had chosen the moment of almost-death to declare himself, she had no idea. (She'd heard the story, and was perfectly sure from her IA days that there was a great deal more to the events than had been revealed.) To the best of her knowledge, however, nothing had happened since.

Gates picked up the phone and put in a call to her colleague on the administrative side. A moment or two later, the call was done. She tapped her fingers, concerned. She had been sure that Beckett would have done whatever it took to get back to work, but the health policy hadn't been used, which meant that she hadn't seen any of the approved psychologists or psychiatrists. It seemed unlikely that she would go outside the policy.

She thought for a moment or two. Beckett wasn't fond of her, she knew. In fact, if Gates had been asked for her opinion, she would have said that Beckett both disliked and distrusted her. It was Gates's further opinion that this was because Beckett and her team had been fiercely loyal to Roy Montgomery, and that something about Gates herself might touch that. There was no point speaking, or searching out, ill of the dead – and Montgomery's record had been exceptional – but Gates did wonder exactly what had happened to send him out to an armed shoot-out alone, and then for a sniper to show up at his funeral and try to take out the one detective who might be good enough to find out the truth.

She'd benched Beckett because she wasn't fit to be in work, and regardless of any other considerations, the safety of her people had to take priority. However, that didn't mean that Beckett wasn't still under her, Gates's, command, and _that _meant that Gates could legitimately enquire what steps she was taking to return to full fitness for duty.

Just as she was about to seek out Beckett's number, her own phone rang. She didn't recognise the number, but that was hardly news. She accepted the call.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Captain Gates."

"Congratulations, Captain."

"Mr Castle?"

"You broke your best detective." Gates stared at the phone. "Hope you're happy now."

"Explain."

"You took Beckett off the job. Now she's convinced herself that she's going to be fired, and that nobody cares whether she's alive or dead."

Gates's own temper, rarely seen, but deadly, ignited. "You will not blame me for your deficiencies. I cannot permit someone who is not fit for duty to be here. In her current state, Beckett is a danger to herself, other detectives, and civilians, including you. Had any of you told me about her _first_ episode, all of this would have been averted, because I could then have ordered her to continue therapy and _also_ informed the therapist of her ongoing PTSD. I have absolutely no doubt that the unlucky therapist is unaware of the breadth of her issues."

She heard a shocked breath.

"I get to pick up the pieces here, now that she and her so-called _team_ have managed to remove any good options. If Detective Beckett is broken because she has been placed on medical leave, that confirms my view that it was the correct course of action. Police work is not a job which allows for psychological frailty – that is why we require psychological clearance after a traumatic incident. _You_ may not have known that, but I assure you that Beckett and her team most certainly did. They chose to ignore it, and now _I_ have to deal with the mess that _they_ created. Beckett cannot be permitted to use work to ignore her PTSD, when that _of itself_ makes her unfit to be working."

Gates drew breath. "It has perhaps failed to cross your mind, Mr Castle, that Detective Beckett's concealment of her PTSD is grounds for disciplinary proceedings, and that had any other senior personnel seen her collapse, she would already have received notice of such proceedings. One of the potential outcomes would be dismissal." Another shocked breath. "Now, in _that_ light, perhaps you would care to restart this conversation, preferably with an apology for your misconceptions."

"Why?"

"Because, despite your evident hostility and disbelief, Detective Beckett is one of my people and _I_ intend that she should return to this precinct and her role." She rode right over the noises. "_When_ she is fit for duty." Gates paused. "Now. Do you have any other reason for calling me, since your efforts to blame me, for a situation I did not cause and am required to resolve, have failed?"

"You took away her coping mechanism."

"Did you not hear what I just said? Or did you fail to understand it? I had no options. Had any other senior officer seen what I saw, Detective Beckett would be facing disciplinary proceedings with a substantial chance of being fired for concealing material information about her fitness for duty. You may call me back _with_ your apology when you have understood the position properly. Until then, I have no reason to speak to you."

Gates cut the call, and breathed deeply. Mr Castle might want to defend Beckett, but Gates was more interested in doing the right thing, no matter how much it hurt initially, than using a sticking plaster solution that would undoubtedly end disastrously.

It took less than ten minutes for Mr Castle to call back. Gates was, unwillingly, impressed.

* * *

"It's Castle."

"I am aware." Gates's tone was not inviting. Castle bridled, and then curbed his anger. Reluctantly, he had actually thought about what Gates had said – and not said. If he read it right, Gates had been attempting to protect Beckett from the consequences of her – their – actions. In which case…he had misjudged her.

But Beckett was broken, all the same, and he couldn't stand to see it.

"I…understand," he dragged out. "But you've taken away the one thing that kept her going and whatever the reason, it's failed."

"Explain." Gates had said that in the prior call, in the same curt, commanding way. "Tell me precisely Detective Beckett's situation."

"She's up here" –

"Where is 'here'?"

"Titusville Mountain State Forest."

"Where is _that_?"

"Practically Canada."

"Why is she there?"

Castle, astoundingly, thought that he detected a hint – barely a tinge – of concern in Gates's sharp question.

"Her dad has a cabin here."

"Why is she not in Manhattan attending an approved psychologist or psychiatrist, Mr Castle?"

"Because she's given up." There was a pause, which invited further comment. Castle was not immune to the ominous silence. "She thinks you're going to fire her, she thinks she isn't going to get fixed, and she thinks she's got no team because they haven't contacted her. At _your _orders," he added acidly. "She's broken down. So she's trying to stay up in the middle of nowhere to rot." His temper got the better of him. "She told me she wished she'd stayed dead."

He was viciously pleased to hear Gates's cold authority broken by a gasp, swiftly stifled. "That would have been unfortunate. However, I have her service weapon." Interesting that Gates had gone there immediately. It was possible, Castle thought, that Gates might have some technical understanding of humanity. "So. Detective Beckett has decided that her problems are insurmountable." Or maybe not. "How do you intend to convince her otherwise?"

"What?"

"How do you intend to convince her otherwise?" Gates repeated, slowly and with strained patience. "I assume that is why you are there."

"Urk," Castle faltered. He should have remembered that Gates was reputed to be a shit-hot investigator. Not much repute required. He had already been grilled.

"Why do you think I pushed you so hard on Monday?"

"Uh?"

"I expected you to go after Detective Beckett. I should have been very disappointed if you hadn't. It seems" – was that a hint of approval? – "that you do regard yourself as, at the very least, as Detective Beckett's partner." She paused. "If you had not, you would have been removed from my precinct. Permanently."

Castle swallowed. That had sounded disturbingly definite.

"So. How are you going to convince her?"

"I don't know."

"I see." Disappointment was palpable.

Castle remembered something. "She said she'd had a year of therapy."

"A year? Detective Beckett was still attending therapy until this event?"

"So she said."

"I trust you had not been planning to invade her privacy."

Castle opened his mouth, and then shut it again. That comment could mean a number of things, and Gates, he now knew, was very much more subtle (and dangerously smart) than any of them had understood.

"You should have let Ryan and Esposito talk to her," he challenged instead.

"Possibly," Gates conceded. "But I don't think that will assist. Detective Beckett needs to stop relying on the job to mask her issues, and she will not be returning to active duty until she has done so."

"She thinks you're going to fire her. She's one piece of paper and a pen from resigning before you do it for her."

"I shall not accept it. I am not in the habit of saying things that I do not mean. Had I wished to fire her, I would have done so."

Ouch. Gates's honesty was as painful as the rest of her behaviour.

"I think we are done. I shall not expect reports from you, since paperwork is not your strong point."

Had that been _humour_?

"However much I disapprove of civilians playing at being police officers, Mr Castle, I wish for Detective Beckett to return to active duty. If you can achieve that outcome, I shall endeavour to put up with your continued presence. Good day."

The call closed. Castle stared at his phone. Had that really happened? Had Gates really admitted that she had manipulated matters so that she…could…_test him_? Had she suggested that Castle should find out who Beckett's shrink was? His head hurt.

He poured himself a glass of water, and searched around for something to eat. Now he thought about it, he was hungry, which was hardly surprising, as it was into the afternoon – and Beckett had neither woken nor, it followed, eaten.

Eventually, he found a freezer, which yielded – among pounds and pounds of fish – frozen vegetables and two steaks. That would do for dinner. There didn't seem to be anything for lunch. Okay. He would wake Beckett, pour coffee down her throat, and they would go get food, which they would eat.

He went upstairs, and gently traced over her sleeping face. "Wake up. We have to go get lunch."

"Not hungry." She didn't even open her eyes.

"You have to eat, and I'm starving, and I don't know where the store is."

"Malone." She pulled the quilt tighter round herself. "You don't need me. I wanna sleep."

"You've been asleep almost all day already. Come on. If you don't," he added with cheerful assertiveness, "I'll put a t-shirt and sweatpants on you and carry you out to the car." He pulled her up, gently, and noticed that she was worryingly fine-drawn, far sharper edged than a week ago. "In fact, we'll go find a restaurant – they do have restaurants up here, don't they?"

She didn't answer, merely nodded, slowly, once.

"Well, we'll find one so you have a proper meal. The only thing in the freezer was fish, and two steaks, which we'll have for dinner." He continued burbling happily (no matter how much of a strain it was) while drawing her out of the bed, over to her holdall, helping her find a t-shirt and pants.

"I'll come back when you're dressed," he said. "Five minutes. I'm really hungry." His stomach grumbled loudly, and he coloured. Beckett didn't react. "Five minutes," he repeated, and closed the door behind him as he left.

* * *

Beckett did as she was told. It was easier than arguing: she didn't have the strength to argue and, basically, she couldn't be bothered. She couldn't be bothered with anything. She threw on the t-shirt and the first pair of pants she'd found, but hadn't found a bra. She didn't look for one. She ran fingers through her hair, in lieu of brushing, and stumbled downstairs.

"Where are your shoes?" Castle asked.

Oh. Shoes. Yes. She turned around and trudged back upstairs, collected her sneakers and staggered down again to where Castle was waiting.

"I'll drive," he said.

Whatever. It didn't matter if he drove. "'Kay." She shuffled towards the door. Castle put her keys in her hand.

"You need to lock up." She shrugged. "What if a Bigfoot got in?" Another shrug, but she locked the door. "Let's go get some food." She felt him steer her out of the door, and towards his car. She sat obediently in the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt. As he started the engine, she closed her eyes.

* * *

Castle, by now, was even more worried than he had been. Beckett, to his untrained eye, seemed to have completely given up on her life – not eating, not washing, not brushing her hair, and forgetting that shoes were a necessity for going out. All she seemed to want to do was sleep, and she was even doing so now, despite the fact that she'd spent almost the entirety of the time he'd been at the cabin asleep. The only time she'd woken up was when he'd put her in the shower, and that had been temporary: destroyed by another flashback. He didn't know a lot about it, but it looked to him like she'd sunk into depression.

Still, Gates had said _I trust you had not been planning to invade her privacy_. Which, to a well-trained grammatical mind, left the present and future tenses wide open. Gates was fiendishly intelligent, it seemed, which was not always likely to be helpful, but for now meant that she was, in a corkscrew twisted sort of way, supportive. And _that_ might mean that if Castle raided Beckett's phone for her shrink's number, Gates wouldn't assist Beckett in killing him and hiding the body. On the other hand, she wouldn't save him either. He parked the thought, and parked the car, right in front of a pizza place.

"Lunch time," he said. She blinked sluggishly, and fumbled with the seatbelt. Castle only just restrained himself from undoing it for her, and instead got out of the car. He didn't resist opening the passenger door for her, though he put that down to manners. "Pizza. I found some steaks in the freezer so I took them out to defrost for dinner."

"'Kay." It was as if she hadn't registered that when he'd first told her, back at the cabin. She trudged along, half a step behind him: he couldn't slow down any further without stopping, and he wouldn't shame her like that. He took care of choosing a table – by the window – and ordering, since she had merely stared blankly at the menu and he knew what she liked on pizzas. The milkshake arrived first, strawberry as she would usually have ordered for herself: she didn't do anything with it.

"Aren't you going to drink it?"

"Yeah," she dragged, and pulled it towards her to do so. Castle watched unobtrusively, to make sure she swallowed. She did, and continued to do so. It seemed that wherever her mind was – which was definitely not here with him – her body was doing what it needed to do. If only she'd done it for herself, rather than being prompted. He remembered that he'd glimpsed a water glass on her nightstand, and eased a fraction.

It was the same when the pizza arrived. Beckett didn't appear to notice, until he nudged her. She ate, but without enjoyment, and in fact took far less than he thought she should have.

"I'll get it all to go," he said. "Do you want a dessert? They've got brownies with ice-cream." She loved brownies, with or without ice-cream.

"No, thanks."

"What? You always get dessert."

"I don't want any." She was flat.

"Coffee?"

"I guess." She wasn't even enthusiastic about that. He began to become irritated.

"What is _wrong _with you?"

Castle just about managed not to snap.

"I thought you were just hungry and miserable, but you've totally shut down. You need to eat, you need to wash, you need to stop sleeping all the time. And if you can't or won't, then you need to go back and see your shrink. This is not normal. This isn't _you_."

"I never asked you to come here."

"I'm not leaving you to rot, whatever you say. You're going to eat, you're going to rest, and right now, you're going to come to the store with me so we can get some provisions that don't have fins, because I can only cope with eating fish once a week."

He put some bills on the table and stood up. "C'mon. We're going shopping." Beckett didn't move. Castle took her hand, and tugged, not quite impatiently. "C'mon. Otherwise you'll be stuck here."

She finally lurched to her feet, slow and awkward, head bent. He kept her hand enclosed in his and then, unable not to, tucked her into his side.

At that point, he realised she was shivering – no, not so delicate a movement, she was shuddering convulsively. "Kate? Kate, what's wrong?"

"Restroom." She slipped his clasp and staggered towards the restroom. Castle stood, waiting, and after a few moments sat down again.

"Can I get two glasses of water, and a coffee?" he asked the server.

"Sure."

He drank the coffee, not hurrying, and then sipped at the water. The empty glass sat in front of him; he played with his phone; he people-watched. Finally, he stopped the server again. "I'm worried about my" – he hitched – "partner. She's been in the restroom for" – he checked his watch, and gasped – "twenty minutes. Could you, um, go check she's okay?"

"Sure." She bustled off. Castle knotted his fingers together, unknotted them, tapped them, and finally wrapped them around the empty water glass. The server bustled back. "She says she'll just be a minute." He consciously eased his shoulders, and produced a book-party smile.

It still took another few moments before Beckett returned.

"Sit down, Kate. I got you some water." The water sloshed as she raised the glass, barely damping her pale lips. Castle slipped an arm around her, ready to catch the glass with his free hand, but it returned to the table without mishap. "What's wrong?"

"I don't feel good."

_Statement of the blindingly obvious_, Castle thought. She was pallid, with a tinge of sickly green which didn't augur well for the next few minutes, let alone the last few. It did, however, explain at least some of the sleeping and general behaviour – though by no means all. He kept her safely within his arm, and didn't ask further, letting her sip or not as she could manage.

"Better?" She'd finished the water, though her lips were still pale. Her head dipped slightly, but the weight of her body within his arm didn't lighten. "Let's just stay here for a bit. Do you want to get some more water, or coffee?"

"Water, please." That wasn't reassuring. He signalled the cheerful server, and more water arrived. Beckett continued to sip. Castle continued to hold her lightly, as if she were as fragile as a soap bubble, and then, butterfly-delicate, ran the tip of his finger over her forehead.

"You've got a temperature," he said. "I think… maybe you should just rest here and I'll go get some food and milk – and some medicine." She achieved a nod, hauling her head back up. "Or you could sit in the car, maybe sleep?" Another nod. Her lashes were sweeping the dark circles below her eyes. "Car," Castle decided for her, left another bill on the table and helped her up and out. He settled her in the car, left her the keys just in case of disaster (though he felt that Beckett _was_ the disaster), and dashed round the stores.

He could only just spot the shallow rise and fall of her chest: asleep again. Now that he looked, the flush on her cheeks was feverish, the circles under her eyes darker, and when he checked again with a careful brush of fingers, her temperature was still high.

They went home considerably faster than they'd come, the suspension smoothing out the worst of the bumps: Castle more sure with every moment that Beckett needed to be back home.

At the cabin he half-carried Beckett upstairs: she was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and fell on to her bed, Castle removing her shoes and then leaving her to the rest she so clearly needed.

At least, that had been the plan: right up until she whimpered painfully. He flipped round to find her struggling to take her t-shirt off: a tell-tale patch of dampness under each arm and at her spine.

"I…can't." Her eyes were red.

He fumbled about under her pillow, and found a sleep tee, moved behind her, and flipped the old t-shirt over her head, discovering, appalled, that she hadn't bothered with a bra – and he hadn't noticed. How much weight had she lost? The sleep tee was over her head before he'd really seen the skin of her back. He didn't try to look at her front. Now was not the time. She pushed ineffectually at her sweatpants, but he had to come round and draw them off from her ankles. She didn't seem to be able to stretch that far. Finally, he tucked her in.

"I'll bring you some water. Don't try and move, okay? You're sick."

"Can't," she dragged out.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

She couldn't focus or think. Everything hurt: sweat poured from her, her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. She vaguely knew that water was put to her lips, cooling her feverish heat; she vaguely felt another presence, comforting without fussing, helping her to the bathroom and bringing – carrying – her back.

But in between, there were only the nightmares: frantically trying to do her job, never doing it well enough or fast enough: the shades of the victims dogging her heels and exhorting her to do more, better, faster; _why haven't you solved it yet? How can I be at peace if you won't find my murderer?_ And then there was Gates: _you're not fit for duty. Go_: the boys behind her nodding in vehement agreement. Castle wasn't there, and that was the worst nightmare of all. He wasn't there. In her nightmares, she knew it was because she'd waited too long to tell him the truth, taken too long to be fixed. Couldn't be fixed.

* * *

Castle had spoken to Ryan a few times, briefly, since he was less combative about his worry than Esposito, to say that he was staying upstate and that Beckett wasn't well. He'd said the same to his family, who were less than impressed but kept the majority of their commentary to themselves. He'd even let Gates know that Beckett was actually physically ill – by text. Speaking to Gates was rarely on his to-do list.

He watched over her, as he had done for almost six full days, as she tossed and turned, never quite at the stage (informed by dealing with Alexis's childhood illnesses) where he needed to get her to the ER but never really hitting consciousness, wracked by nightmares and, worst of all, sometimes calling for him and then weeping that he wasn't there; not hearing his soft assurances that he was there, always there. She hadn't eaten, and she was burning through the few reserves she'd had, seeming thinner by the hour, though he'd managed to help her drink; supported her to and from the bathroom but left her the privacy within. He didn't think she'd ever really noticed.

Castle considered the agony on her face, the tight ball of her body and limbs, and, unable to do anything more for her, slipped away downstairs, where he contemplated the screen of her phone. He shouldn't do what he was going to do, by any normal standards of civilised manners. But if he didn't, Beckett wouldn't, and he had the perfect opportunity to do so while she wouldn't notice.

"Can I speak to Dr Burke, please?"

"May I say who is calling?" That was a surprise. Castle had expected to be told to call later, or that he would be called back.

"I'm Richard – Rodgers."

"Please hold."

The hold music was soothingly classical and completely unfamiliar.

"Dr Burke speaking."

"Er… hello. Um… it's actually about Detective Kate Beckett?"

The professionally warm tone disappeared. "And you are who, precisely?"

"I'm, um, Richard Castle. Her partner."

"And yet I was informed that the person calling was Richard Rodgers. In any event, I will not be speaking to you."

"Don't hang up! I want to speak to you. Beckett's been suspended."

A sharp intake of breath whistled through the connection. "Before you continue, why have you called?"

"I know you're treating Beckett." He didn't say how.

"And?" It wasn't quite hostile. It certainly didn't invite cheerful chatter.

"She had a PTSD episode while interrogating and her Captain suspended her indefinitely on medical grounds. That was about two weeks ago. Then she ran off here" –

"Where is 'here'?"

"Titusville Mountain State Forest – without telling anyone and, well, she said she wished she'd stayed dead" – another sharp breath – "and now she's ill. Flu, probably, but…um… if she isn't better tomorrow I think I'm going to have to take her to a doctor. It's been a week."

"I see."

"So anyways, I think she needs to come see you but I don't think she will and, well, I don't know what to do but" –

"Mr Castle."

Castle was stopped in mid-flow.

"Without commenting on any person who I might or might not be treating, are you not aware that it is up to any adult, having capacity, as to whether they seek, accept, continue or cease medical treatment of any sort?"

"Well, yes, but" –

"And that therefore it would be entirely up to Detective Beckett whether she sought or continued treatment?"

"Yes, but" –

"And that therefore I cannot assist you. Should Detective Beckett seek my guidance, I shall provide it. If she does not, I cannot. Good day, Mr Castle."

The call terminated. Castle stared at the phone, swore viciously, fruitlessly and unsatisfyingly quietly for a few moments, and then went outside the cabin and yelled at the empty forest. Primal scream therapy, he concluded as he finished, was a con.

The cabin was silent. Castle switched the kettle on, and only then had a mental double-take, raced upstairs to find out why there was no noise, heart hammering, panicked.

For almost the first time since he'd reached the cabin, she was quiet and still. He placed a terrified hand on her forehead, which was disgustingly clammy, and only then placed careful fingers on the pulse point in her neck. It was… he counted, carefully…a little fast, but not too bad. She was less foetal, too. Maybe, just maybe, she'd come through the worst, and, if she weren't incubating an illness, there would be the chance to pull her back. (_to you_, a little voice said in his head. _You'd live without her being a cop. You can't live without her, whatever you try to tell yourself_.)

He sat down on the edge of the bed, gently, so as not to move her – he'd dropped too hard once, and she'd whimpered like a wounded deer – and stroked her hair back from her damp face. She'd benefit from a bath, but there was only a shower here, and no way to improvise. Her eyes stayed shut, her breathing didn't alter, but there was no pained scratch from her throat, no wince. She seemed easier. He leaned down, and placed a butterfly kiss on her forehead. She made a soft noise, and stayed sleeping as he left.

He made himself a coffee, and slumped at the table, holding it to warm his hands and his suddenly-cold, adrenaline-crashing psyche. He had to be strong…but not right now. His eyes stung, and his fingers trembled. Ignoring the coffee, he put his head on the table, just for a moment…just a moment… The coffee cooled as deep breathing and the occasional tiny snore filled the air.

A creak of floorboards woke him. He creaked himself, to join the wood, and stretched the knots from his abused spine: tail to neck. The position he'd… oh. Fallen asleep in… had done nothing to ease his muscles. He undertook a few more stretches, and heard a flush, running water, more small creaks as Beckett – huh? Started down the stairs?

Less than two fragile, tentative steps downward, Castle had bounded up the remaining steps and caught her.

"What are you doing?"

"Coffee," she pleaded.

"I'd have brought you it. You shouldn't be out of bed."

She stared at him.

"You've been really sick. Flu, or something like that."

She was still staring, as if he were a ghost. "How are you here? You… I thought you'd gone. You weren't there."

"I've been here all the time."

"No… I was looking for you and you weren't there."

"Nightmares," he said briskly, and went backwards down the steps, ready to catch her if – possibly _when_ – she tripped. Her ankles looked too narrow to support her, the sharp jut of her cheekbones far too pronounced, her wrists too thin to catch herself. _A collection of twigs_, he thought, _held together with thread_.

Even the stairs proved her weakness. She sank into the couch, shaking.

"Okay, just sit there and don't try and move." Castle made the coffee, and sat down beside her. "You got sick when we went into town six days ago."

Sluggish comprehension trudged into her face. "Six?" He nodded. She gazed at her mug, steaming gently on the table. "I don't remember."

Castle winced. "Don't remember what?"

"After the diner." She missed his slumped relief. He'd thought she might…. He'd thought she would lie again: ignore the preceding days. It would have given her the perfect get out.

But she hadn't used it. She hadn't used it.

"I thought you'd gone. You weren't there."

"I said: nightmares."

The coffee sloshed from side to side of the mug as she took a sip, and followed with a larger mouthful, but then she put it back on the table. Castle would have been happier if she'd kept it in her hands, as usual, but the tremor in her arms prevented it. Uncomfortable silence thickened the air.

"What now?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Staying here." It was, despite his earlier hopes, just as flat, blank and uncaring as she'd been when he'd arrived.

"And do what?"

She shrugged again. "I'll find something. Doesn't matter."

"But…"

"But what. I'm going to be fired. I can't be a cop 'cause I can't do the job. It's over. So who cares what I do?" The floodgates opened. "I'm never going to be fixed. There's no point and I'm so tired of trying when nothing works. I'm done." She huddled into the corner of the couch. "I'm done with all of it."

"You haven't been fired," he tried.

"Only a matter of time." She glanced around with dead eyes. "Might as well resign first. Looks better."

"Gates said she wasn't going to fire you," he blurted out.

"She hates me. Anyway, the team's broken. I'm broken and it broke the team. No team. No cop. No point. It's done, and I'm done." She heaved herself up, slow and hurting. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."

He watched her bent back and lank hair as she stumbled upstairs, and tried not to weep as he was sure she was weeping.

And then he picked up his phone, went outside into the thin April sunshine and gusting breeze, and dialled Gates. It was the only thing he could think of that might shatter Beckett into sense.

"Captain Gates."

"It's Rick Castle."

"Yes?"

"Beckett's not okay."

"So I surmised. Neither of you is here."

"She was sick. But she's still saying she's done with it all. She thinks you're going to fire her and the only way she'll believe you won't is if you tell her."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because you said that Beckett was one of your people and you intended her to get back to the precinct."

"I did say that. However, Detective Beckett's choices are _her_ decisions."

"Not if she hasn't got the full facts."

"A fair point," Gates said judicially. "Of what else should I be aware?"

Castle found himself on the sharp-pointed horns of a dilemma. He didn't truly think that Beckett would last six months without being a cop, but saying that might be the final nail in the coffin of Gates's tolerance. He thought back to Gates's previous cutting comments, and decided.

"I think she's not just done with being a cop – she thinks. I think she means she's done with everything. I think" – he choked on the words – "she still wishes she'd stayed dead."

"And you haven't managed to convince her otherwise? I would have thought that you had one sure way to change that."

"She was ill. And it didn't make a difference anyway," he added bitterly. An interrogative silence trapped him. "She just said she'd never be fixed and it wasn't enough."

"I do not believe that."

Castle gaped uselessly at the phone.

"I shall talk to her. Put her on."

"She's asleep."

"I see. When she wakes, you will ensure that she calls me. I think we are done here, Mr Castle." He'd swear he heard a fragment of approval as she cut the call.

* * *

At her desk in the Twelfth Precinct, with the sunlight knifing through her blinds, Gates contemplated the value of the sharp lesson which Mr Castle had evidently learned. That was very satisfactory. Detective Beckett's condition, however, was not satisfactory at all. Gates would have thought that some blunt truth about Mr Castle's only-too-obvious feelings would have improved Beckett's mood enough to pull her out of the slough of despond into which she had fallen. Of course, that was proof positive that Beckett had not solved her issues in any way. Had she done so, Gates reflected acidly, or had any of the four of them actually had the sense to report to Gates herself, then this whole mess might have been avoided. Beckett's flu – and Gates did believe Mr Castle on that subject: he was distressingly voluble about most things – was merely one further roadblock.

Still, Gates was not inclined to allow a detective as good as Beckett to leave without taking drastic steps to try and resolve the position. She began to consider her strategy.

* * *

Castle made himself lunch, forced himself to eat it, and forced himself to drink. Stress had given him a slight headache, but two Advil cured it. He tried to write, and failed: eventually giving up and reading while his phone charged. After about an hour, he heard small sounds of stirring, and shortly after that Beckett wavered down the stairs.

"Hey," he said. "Want some lunch? I got some soup at the store."

She stared pathetically at him, as if she hadn't understood.

"Soup? Chicken, 'cause you were ill."

"'Kay, thanks." She flopped into a chair at the table, and recovered from the exertion. Castle heated the soup, and sliced and buttered a little bread, in case she'd eat it. He didn't put much in the bowl. Beckett slowly spooned it up, still shaky, and nibbled at the bread.

Castle sat opposite, and tried to think of the best way to introduce the subject of Gates's desire – or order – to talk to Beckett as soon as possible. He wasn't having any success at all. Every time he thought about how that conversation might go – not even the discussion with Gates – the outcome became worse. While he thought, Beckett failed to finish either the small portion of soup or the small piece of bread, which didn't fill Castle with any confidence either.

When she pushed the bowl away, he decided that he simply had to jump in with both feet.

"Um, Gates wants to talk to you," he blurted out before he could think himself out of it. Every drop of blood drained from Beckett's face. "Don't faint!" He was round the table in an instant, holding her, cossetting her close to him. "It's okay. I've got you." A feeble grip clutched at his sweater, and her cheek pressed against his ribs. He held her tighter.

"Don't let go." He hadn't been planning to. "I can't…" He thought she was crying. "I can't talk to her. She'll fire me and that's it…game over." _OhmyfuckingGod_. _She's coming back._ "I know I'm done but I want to go on my terms not hers." _Shit. Not back. And definitely crying._ "Can't I just finish with some dignity?"

"You don't know what she's going to say," he tried softly, and knelt down to cradle her more comfortably. "She put you on medical leave. Why'd she do that if she was going to fire you?"

"So she doesn't look like a total bitch or get on the wrong side of the union rep."

Beckett's words might be bitter, but they were more passionate than anything she'd said in the last ten days, since she'd gone into Interrogation One and everything had crashed and burned. A tiny tendril of hope pushed through the mulch of Castle's worries.

"Just hear her out. If she fires you, I'll talk her into letting it be a resignation instead." He manufactured resolve. "I know a lot of very good lawyers, and I can make her life absolute _hell_."

"Do I have to?"

"Get it over with. Whatever happens, I'll be here."

"Why? I'm all washed up."

Castle cut her off without compunction. "We'll talk about that – we'll _talk_ – after you've called Gates." But his words were softened by his arms around her, caressing and cossetting. "C'mon. You can do this." Her head shook against his chest and shoulder. "You can. One step."

"Last step."

He wouldn't let it be. He wouldn't let her throw everything away without knowing _all_ the facts. Right now, she didn't know any of them.

"I don't want to," she sniffled: a child facing unpleasantness.

"One thing. Then it's done."

"I guess," she breathed, defeat in every word and line of her body. "It's done." Her hands trembled.

"I'll dial." He pulled a chair round to sit next to her, tapped on the phone, and set it on speaker. She didn't protest, nor when he put a gentle arm around her.

"Captain Gates."

Castle nudged Beckett, who, now that the moment of doom had come, couldn't speak.

"Captain Gates here. Who is this?" Her tone was sharply irritated. Beckett still couldn't force a word from her mouth. Castle stepped in.

"It's me, Castle," he said. "Beckett's with me."

"Detective Beckett." Beckett shivered. "Explain why you have not either attended therapy or reported for duty with medical proof that you are fit to serve."

Silence. Gates's ire burned through the connection.

"Perhaps you would care to explain why you are not using your medical leave to seek treatment? Medical leave is not an excuse to take a vacation."

Beckett summoned words. "I've been sick. Anyway, what's the point in therapy? You're going to fire me anyway. Just get on with it."

Gates's irascible temper fired. "If I had been going to fire you, Detective, I would have done so immediately. I don't keep dead wood around." She paused, and received no answer. "I am perfectly aware that you remain loyal to your previous Captain, but I am exceedingly disappointed that such loyalty has erased both your ability to accept a new Captain and to assess them impartially, and therefore to realise that I do not play games with my people." She paused. "Captain Montgomery is _dead_. Whatever he may have done, or not done – and I am quite certain that there are matters which you have not disclosed which would cast doubt on his reputation – death erases all sins. I am not minded to waste resources on investigating his role in the events leading up to his funeral unless I have no other option."

Gates stopped again, clearly expecting a comment. Castle gnawed the inside of his cheek to stop himself talking. Beckett's face was entirely blank.

"I am your Captain now."

"It doesn't matter. I'm done."

"Done? Not while you are a detective employed by the NYPD."

"Who cares? Everyone made it clear I can't do the job. I'm done." Her fingers stretched towards the phone. Castle moved it so that she couldn't cut the call. "No-one wants to know me now."

"I expect the same standard of work from you as you have previously given to the NYPD. That means, Detective, that I expect you to undergo whatever treatment you require and return to this precinct at the earliest opportunity after you have resolved your issues. Until that time, however, your team remains under the same order I gave last week: that they are not to contact you in any way."

Beckett jerked, and gasped.

"Had I not done so, they would have impeded your recovery by speaking to you at every opportunity. I will not permit you to use your work to mask the underlying issues which you need to deal with."

_Cold turkey_, Castle thought, and fortunately didn't say it. Beckett's face was coming to life, and not in a good way. Fire rose in her eyes, but began to fade again. His heart sank.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"I will also point out that your conduct, together with that of your so-called team" – Gates's tone bit.

The fire re-sparked.

"We _are _a team" –

"I doubt that. Your so-called team and so-called partner took no steps at all to assist you to resolve your issues when they became apparent a few months ago. You actively sought to hide your issue. Your collective conduct was unconscionably _stupid_, and proved quite conclusively that you are neither a team nor a partnership."

Beckett's mouth opened and shut several times. Castle saw the small signs and glanced around, seeking cover. Gates had landed on the one, enormously high risk, strategy that might just work.

"Had you been any sort of a team at all, let alone the team you claimed to be, your co-workers would have acted in your best interests and reported your PTSD to me, regardless of your views on the matter. Had Mr Castle actually been your partner, and not merely been driven by the need to sell more books, _he_ would have had your best interests at heart and" –

Beckett exploded, ignited into furious life.

"How _dare_ you? Castle saved my life and you say he's not my partner? He absolutely is."

Castle gaped.

"Ryan and Espo did more than you ever have to help me and we _four_ are the best team you'll ever see."

_Are_? Castle thought. _What an unconscious admission_. _You aren't done at all_.

"You wouldn't know a partner if it bit you on the ass and you wouldn't know a team either. You deliberately cut me off from my team and you think that's a _good_ thing? Your head's so far up your ass I can see your eyes when you open your mouth. My team got me through and as far as _I_ knew it was all fixed. I hadn't had a single issue in almost six months."

"May I remind you that you are speaking to a superior officer?"

Beckett ran straight over that. Castle didn't think it had been a warning, but goading.

"You're going to fire me. That's what you've wanted since the day I returned because I made detective faster than you and you're jealous." Castle tried to hide. "You've tried to kick Castle to the kerb and that didn't work, so now you're trying to break the team and that won't work either. You might have stopped Ryan and Espo calling me but you can't stop me calling them. If I'm on medical leave you have no authority over what I do and if you try to fire me for talking to my team then I'll be in with the union rep so fast you'll see the sidewalk burning behind me."

"I have already said I do not intend" –

"Yeah, right. Because it looks bad" –

"_Enough_."

The knife of Gates's icy anger cut straight through Beckett's outrage and silenced her.

"I am not firing you. Therefore you will address me as _sir_. Further insubordination will not be tolerated. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Beckett's tone was just as icy. She paused. "Sir." Castle breathed again. For an appalled heartbeat, he'd thought she wouldn't give Gates any respect. "With all due respect, _sir_" – _so that would be none, Beckett, which all three of us perfectly understand, because I've seen less bite in Jaws_ – "I disagree with your comments."

"Which ones?" Gates snapped. Despite the primal terror Gates induced in him, Castle relaxed further. Beckett had been baited into defending her team and out of her terrifying lassitude. His respect for Gates had risen considerably in the last few moments.

"My team is solid. They're what got me through and they did it because they thought it was best for me. They were there when I needed them, same as I've been there for them. Our team is tight. Castle _is_ my partner and will be whether you try and kick him out or not. You won't manage it, because our stats have been better ever since he arrived and if you try and spoil that I'll fight you all the way to the top of 1PP and then the Mayor. They want crimes solved. I'll make it look like you let petty personal prejudice stop that. _Sir_. So if you want a war, bring it on. You might start it but I _will_ finish it. _Sir_."

Castle contemplated the value of a blast shield. Beckett barrelled on, utterly enraged: her fury overcoming her physical weakness and holding her up.

"You mess with _my _team and _my_ partner and you'll have to go through me first. _Sir_." Gates started a sentence. Beckett didn't let it go past the first sound. "You might be the Captain but you haven't given us any respect, so why would we trust you to do what was best? You haven't earned that right because you've spent six months trying to bring us down and I don't care if you are our boss, I am not letting you destroy _my _team and _my_ partner, just like you've been trying to all along, because they did what we all thought was best for me. _Do you understand me, Sir_?"

She finally stopped, the blast furnace still burning in her eyes.

"I understand you perfectly, Detective Beckett. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you right now for your insubordination to a superior officer."

Beckett didn't even have to think, her terrifying intelligence and strategic mind taking hold. Castle mentally applauded Gates, but was exceedingly glad this wasn't taking place in person.

"Because you just deliberately goaded me into losing my temper and defending my team," she said coldly: right back to Badass Beckett, terror of the interrogation suite. "You were testing me to see if I still had it."

She took a deep breath, and straightened her spine, parade attention while still sitting at a kitchen chair in a sleep tee, unshowered and un-made up. Her natural ability had settled back into place, though her fingers trembled.

"You aren't going to fire me because this is the result you wanted. You need me and my team to keep your stats up. You want to be sure I'll keep you looking good at 1PP."

There was a short silence.

"Mr Castle, depart from this conversation."

"Castle, stay put." Beckett snapped. "Anything you say to me, _sir_, can be said in front of Castle."

The shrug was evident in Gates's tone. "I prefer to deliver reprimands in private, but that is up to you."

"He stays. Sir."

"Very well, then. Your conduct, Detective, has been egregiously stupid. As soon as you had an episode of PTSD on the sniper case, you should have reported to me and sought help. Why you thought that you could solve it yourself entirely escapes me. You are reputedly intelligent, and therefore the only reason I can find for your behaviour is an unpleasant combination of overweening pride and fear of the consequences. I am quite certain that your unfortunate therapist has not been advised of the depth or duration of your PTSD."

As Gates continued, Beckett's rigid spine slumped.

"The single redeeming feature" – Gates's stern discipline softened – "is that you genuinely thought that you had fixed the issue, and that therefore you were fit to continue serving the people of New York. Your defence of your team and partner is commendable, though I advise you never again to use such language and tone to me, should you wish to continue working for the NYPD. Any future occurrence will result in your instant dismissal. Any failure to report any further issues affecting your fitness for duty will also result in your dismissal."

She paused, to give that flaying a chance to strip Beckett's remaining skin.

"You will present yourself back in Manhattan in two days' time, to report to me on Friday morning, at nine a.m. You will then continue on medical leave until both you and your therapist can truthfully" – there was a nasty emphasis on that – "report, separately, to me, that you have fully addressed your PTSD. In that time neither you nor Mr Castle will enter the precinct."

"But sir" –

"No. You have attempted to use your work to mask or overcome your PTSD. Surely it is obvious to you" – Castle heard _even to your boneheaded stupidity_ – "that it has not worked." That wasn't a question. "Therefore we will now do this in accordance with my orders as your Captain. We will discuss this further on Friday. You will not contact either or both of Detectives Ryan and Esposito until further notice, so that you cannot discuss work."

Gates cut the call without farewell. Beckett stared at the phone, and then went completely white.

"Did I really say all that?" she whispered. "Oh my God."

Her head hit the table. All Castle could hear was a repetitive "Ohmigod". He patted her gently on the back.

"You survived."

"Till Friday," she said mordantly, into the table. "Then I'll be executed in the bullpen."

Castle snapped his mouth shut on _I'll step in front of the bullet_ just in time. "Do you want some more soup?" he asked instead.

"I – yes, thanks. But I think I want a shower more."

"Go have it. I'll warm up the soup again while you do." _Anything so you don't drop back into that state again._

Shortly, the twin sounds of running water and Beckett expressing disgust at her physical weakness could be heard. Castle stirred the soup, and prayed.

* * *

Gates regarded her office with considerable and justified satisfaction. Of course, she had taken a considerable risk which could easily have failed: however, she had bet on Detective Beckett, no matter what her issues, being completely loyal to her team and her partner; and had been proven entirely correct. Gates did not appreciate the tone used to her, but she had quite deliberately provoked the reaction. On Friday, she would have all three detectives present, and no doubt Mr Castle too, and would provide them with a final dressing down.

She reflected, again, that this could all have been avoided if the team had made better decisions months ago. However, it seemed that the unpleasant – and, from Mr Castle's words, likely – situation of Detective Beckett falling into full scale depression, or worse, had been avoided.

Gates didn't expect that Friday's interview would make any of her top team like her any better. That was fine with her. She didn't need to be liked, she merely required each of her teams to show respect and obedience.

That settled, she allowed herself to indulge in a certain amount of private speculation as to the timing of the apparently inevitable outcome of Mr Castle's presence at Detective Beckett's cabin. She had to admit that Mr Castle had some good points, but she would certainly not be letting him know that she approved of his actions and presence with regards to Beckett. Gates was a deeply practical person, and practicality dictated that Mr Castle was (one) good for Beckett and (two) good for the precinct's stats. Therefore she would put up with him in the precinct, where she would profoundly prefer that he was not. Civilians should not be putting themselves in unnecessary danger by shadowing police detectives.

She scowled at the desk at a new consideration. Mr Castle had convinced Beckett to call her. Gates, an extremely intelligent woman, wondered whether, and if so when, Beckett's fury at her would burn out and leave her back where this mess had begun. _Sufficient unto the day_, Gates quoted to herself, and turned to the rest of her in-tray.

* * *

Beckett came back downstairs in a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, wet hair twisted up out of her way. She was cautious and shaking, clinging to the handrail and checking each step before she began the next, but there was still life in her eyes and she hadn't dropped back into that horrifying absence and nothingness.

"Better?"

"Yeah. I'm… I think I'm hungry," she said, sounding surprised. "But after that I want to change my bed sheets and wash some clothes."

"Okay. Here's the soup." Castle whisked a bowl in front of her, which she finished, despite the tremors in her hands as she raised the spoon to her mouth. "More?"

"I think I'd better take it slowly."

"You haven't eaten for what? Six days? You didn't exactly keep down the pizza – Beckett?" A delicate colour had sliced her sharp – too sharp – cheekbones. "When did you last eat?"

"Uh…" She looked completely blank. Her colour had faded to grey.

Castle decided on discretion. "You're right. Better take it easy." If she couldn't remember… if he hadn't come, she wouldn't have eaten. It wasn't a long leap of imagination to reach the next, terrifying, conclusion, because when he got here, and for the six and a half days after, she hadn't cared or been able to eat, and he didn't think she'd cared before that.

He picked up her bowl, intending to tidy up, but before he could turn towards the sink she placed a hand over his, and curled her fingers around to clasp his. Her face, still pallid and fine cut, turned up to meet his clear blue eyes.

"It can wait," she said: stood, still trembling, and wrapped her arm around him. He instinctively embraced her, and as she leant in, cossetted her closer until he was quite sure that he could catch her if she fell. Her tremors were pronounced, and suddenly he was supporting all her weight.

"Kate? Kate!"

_Aw, shit!_

He scooped her up, carried her to the couch and laid her down, trying not to think _laid her out_. She'd obviously overdone matters: burned her energy on Gates and, thinking that she was better, stood in the shower and then come back down. Looking at her now, her clothes were as frighteningly loose as – well, as one might expect for a nasty case of flu and inability to eat, coming on top of bleak misery and simply not bothering to eat.

On the other hand, optimism pointed out that she'd recovered some personality and tried to hug him, which was a gesture she'd made maybe, um, three times in her entire life? He checked her temperature – okay – and made himself a coffee while he waited for her to wake up.

The mugful was long done when her lashes twitched.

"Urrggghhh."

That appeared to be the sum total of life.

"What happened?"

"You fainted," Castle said bluntly, "which isn't very surprising because you haven't eaten for at least six days and I bet it's more like two weeks, and then you burned up all your energy trying to turn Gates into a small pile of ashes. She must be made of asbestos."

"Oh," Beckett said in a very small voice. "Oh God." She cringed and shrank into her already thin self. "I said all that? Oh God."

"You got away with it. This time." _And you've forgotten that you said you were done and were going to quit._ "I don't recommend doing it again, though. Likely she won't appreciate it." He grinned. "Worth listening to."

"Oh God." She tried to sit up, and gave up. Castle ambled over and hoisted her up, which gave him the chance to put an arm around her. If she'd tried to hug him, then he could certainly hug her, even if she was disturbingly floppy. There was a tiny wiggle, which brought her closer, and her hand landed on his knee.

"That's better," he said. "She told you to report to her on Friday at the precinct, so you've got tomorrow to…um…"

"Stop fainting?" The words should have snipped, or snarked. They drooped.

"Prepare, I was going to say. But not fainting would be good, too. How about some dinner?" She made an unhappy little noise. "You have to eat something. You've lost so much weight it's worrying."

"I… there didn't seem to be any point."

Castle's arm inadvertently tightened. Beckett's breath whooshed out of her lungs, and he loosened it. "Oops, sorry."

"It was all gone."

"Mm?" he murmured.

"You'd gone. You didn't answer my calls or texts. I knew you'd given up."

"All I knew was that you'd lied to me. Right up till then I thought you really didn't remember. That was…would have been… okay. But you remembering and not telling me you knew… that wasn't." She shrank away. "You didn't tell me _why_. You didn't tell me you were trying to fix yourself, or seeing a therapist, or anything. If I'd known any of it… If you'd said anything, then it would all have been different. I'd… I'd still have been there when you" –

"Collapsed," she said flatly, and shrank further away.

He pulled her back again. "It never occurred to me that you were trying to forget the _whole_ of that day. How could it? I didn't know what you were going through because you didn't tell me. I just thought…well, I just thought that you didn't care and it was me – what I said. But it wasn't. That wasn't what it was all about." He paused, because that bit hard, and sometime they were going to need to talk about it. He'd opened his soul to her, but she'd been dying – she had _died_, twice over – and couldn't bear to remember any of it. "But you do." That was what mattered. "You couldn't say you didn't. And you know I do."

"It still doesn't fix anything." She'd stopped snuggling as soon as the conversation had begun. "I tried and tried and it hasn't worked and what if it happens again? I got a pass this time but I won't get another…" Any further words dissolved into a blur, from which _what if I mess you up too_ eventually dribbled out.

"Let's get to Friday, and see what happens."

"I don't want to go back."

Castle tugged sharply and tumbled Beckett back into a close embrace bearing some considerable resemblance to a cage. "You just went toe-to-toe with Gates to defend your team. You do _so_ want to go back. When you lost your temper it was all about now. Not what was. If you didn't want to go back to being a cop you'd have taken the out and you _didn't_. So why are you suddenly backing out now?"

Beckett didn't say anything. Castle could feel the shivers through her thin body, and for once said nothing rather than chewing on both feet.

She muttered something, too low to hear, too tired, he thought, to vocalise. He changed tack.

"You've been sick and you're not well yet. Eat something later, and tomorrow, and that'll help." He stopped hard. "Um… how are you going to get back? I mean…are you okay to drive? Because if not, one car is going to have to stay here."

She simply shook her head.

"We'll go in my car, then. It's more comfortable." There wasn't so much as a negating noise. He could only see dark, still-damp hair; could only feel slumped laxity, no more fire or fury, no more strength. He gently grasped her chin to turn her face up to his, and saw only exhaustion and the memory of defeat. But still, no blankness. None of that terrifying _absence_. "Come here." He brought her in and cuddled her against his shoulder. "You're still tired. Let's go change your bed, and then you can sleep till dinner time."

"'Kay." She stumbled upward, Castle never letting her go and keeping a guarding arm around her until they reached her bedroom. She stared at the crumpled mess of sheets and quilt, the tossed pillows with the smudges of tears and sweat staining them. Castle, for once the practical one, started removing the used linen: Beckett looked as if she would rather fall on the bed than change it: barely managing to remove a single pillowcase while Castle disposed of almost everything else.

"Where's the clean stuff?"

"Cupboard," she said, but sank on to the bed. Castle investigated and returned with a clean set of bed clothes, swiftly making up the bed, working around Beckett, who barely managed to put on the pillowcases.

"I think you should have a rest," he said to her closing eyes, "though it might be better if you undressed first."

She struggled to slide off her sweatpants, which she left where they finally fell, and burrowed under the sheets. Castle tucked the quilt around her, and dropped a tiny kiss on her hair. She was asleep before he'd straightened up.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially to the guests who cannot be thanked directly._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

A couple of hours after Beckett had gone back to sleep, Castle came to the end of his inspiration, struggled out of the thicket of words which weren't _quite_ right, and discovered that it was definitely dinner time. He looked at the remaining soup, and decided that there was just about enough for both of them, with some more bread. The hob went on, the soup began to heat, the bread became sliced and the butter sat, warmly yellow, on the wooden table to soften.

He wandered up the stairs to investigate Beckett's state, not expecting much. He didn't find it. The only visible part of her was a curl of dark hair: the rest of her head buried in the pillows and quilt. It wasn't quite as messed up as previously, and she wasn't quite as tightly curled up as she had been, but she didn't look entirely comfortable. He pulled the quilt back to expose her face, and stroked a broad finger across her sleep-crumpled cheek. A long, slow half-opening resulted, and then an even slower full opening of her eyes, eventually arriving at focus.

"You're here," she mumbled.

"Where did you think I'd be?"

"I must have dreamed it. You weren't here." He noticed the sheen over her eyes. "I needed you and you weren't there…" She turned her face into the pillow.

He plumped down on the edge of the bed and stroked her cheek again. "Come out. I'm here. It was just a dream." His hand remained cradling her cheek, thumb brushing to and fro. "You're not really better, are you?" Her head shook. "Didn't think so. You don't normally dissolve like this."

"Never ill," she mumbled some more.

Castle didn't comment. PTSD, as far as he was concerned, was quite definitely an illness, and Beckett had been suffering from it for close to a year.

"There's soup," he offered, "and coffee afterwards." She turned huge, damp eyes to him. "If you've got a robe, just put that on, and I'll help you downstairs. You don't want soup in the sheets. The other ones aren't dry." Especially as he hadn't put them in the dryer yet.

She sat up, and dragged her feet and herself out of the bed, completely heedless of the excellent view she afforded Castle; comprising a pair of mile-long legs – and a crystal clear demonstration of how little she'd eaten over the last several days. He hardly understood how legs that spindly could hold her up, and indeed she was wobbling alarmingly and gripping the closet door tightly. A woolly robe emerged from within the closet to swathe her and conceal the drawn lines of her form. It might originally have been pink, with a teddy bear over the pocket. Castle didn't quite snicker.

All desire to laugh left him as she staggered away from the closet. He took a step towards her, and swung her up into his arms. She was horribly light and even thinner than he'd thought from her wet t-shirt view, days ago. Then again, she'd barely eaten since, and any reserves had burned off with her fever.

"Huh?"

"I can't watch you fall down the stairs. Just hang on."

He shouldn't have been able to carry her down the stairs, but it wasn't that hard to do, and then he set her in the chair.

Soup and bread appeared. Beckett made an attempt at eating it, but she might have been using a fork for all the soup that made it to her mouth. The bread was more successful, if achieving contact between food and mouth were to be defined as success.

"You could just dunk the bread in the soup," Castle pointed out, a tad briskly, and at her unexpected flinch, was instantly worried by her reaction to his tone. He was a compassionate man. She must know that?

"Yeah…" but her eyes had shuttered and her expression blanked. "You look tired," she said, and slowly dunked her bread. Watching her bread repetitively sink below the surface meant that he couldn't see her eyes. "You should get some sleep."

As she said it, Castle realised that he was, in fact, utterly exhausted, his earlier nap notwithstanding. A lot seemed to have happened today, and all of it draining. "Yeah. Are you done?"

"Guess so." She wiped around the bowl to sop up the last dregs. "I'll clear up. You go have a shower and get some rest." He flicked a sharp glance at her. "The soup helped. I'll be fine. You don't need to worry." She made a shoo-ing gesture. "Go sleep."

He trudged upstairs, found a clean towel, showered and fell into bed, eyes shutting as his head hit the pillow. He hadn't heard any crashes.

* * *

Beckett slowly cleared the table and carefully stacked the dishwasher, pausing frequently to gather her energy. Occasionally, she sniffed. She hadn't expected the sharp tone from Castle, and in her enervated, barely convalescent state it had hit her much harder than it normally would, or should, have done. It had barely been a snippet, let alone a snap. She told herself off for being over-sensitive, and blew her nose. He hadn't meant to trigger her total insecurity about not being fixed and him getting tired of waiting. Hadn't he said that he still loved her?

But that had been a week ago, before she fainted and was ill and useless. Alone, she couldn't imagine how she'd managed to face down Gates, or indeed how she would face her again on Friday, and deep underneath that, she couldn't imagine that Castle would stay so understanding of her weakness once he'd seen that it was permanent.

She went back to bed. Even something as simple as stacking the dishwasher had drained her completely, which was pathetic. She could hear Castle's deep, even breathing, punctuated by the occasional whiffle, from her father's room, just about managed to wash and brush her teeth, and collapsed back into the pillows. Her eyelids dropped without her realising as she plunged off the cliff-edge of consciousness.

* * *

Castle startled awake deep in the pitch-black night, unsure why he had roused. There was no noise around him, except for the rustling of the trees. Maybe, used to the constant white noise of Manhattan, it was the silence that had woken him, though he'd thought, given how fast his lights had gone out, that he'd have been too tired to be woken by the Fourth of July fireworks and a marching band next to his head. He wriggled down under the quilt, and closed his eyes again, still exhausted. A few minutes later they popped open again. Something was wrong, but he couldn't hear anything – no tears, no sniffing. He settled back – and jerked up again. He couldn't hear _anything_. Surely he should hear something? Rustling of the sheets, breathing – he'd even take a snore right now, so long as there was something.

There was nothing. He shivered his way across to Beckett's bedroom, flashlight from his phone wavering, and peered in. There was a bundled form, which must have been Beckett. He padded up closer, and realised that her face was half-buried in a muffling pillow, and then that her breath was shallow, too light to be heard in his room. Worriedly, he put a palm on her forehead, and found it warmer than it should be, but not as frighteningly hot as it had been mere days ago. His pounding heart slowed, but he didn't turn to seek his own bed. Instead, he considered for barely a moment, then slid into the other side of hers. At least that way he'd not be woken by the absence of sound. He'd thought… well, late in the night, deep in the dark, nightmares writhed in his head. Only nightmares, but he had to banish them somehow, and this way, in his exhausted, fuddled brain, seemed best to him. He crashed out of consciousness as soon as he'd slipped between the sheets, not touching her.

The morning sun pouring through the window woke Castle, when he found that in sleep his hand had migrated to Beckett's waist and that she was almost spooned in. He separated himself carefully, not waking her, and sneaked out, back to his room, finding it was almost eight. In the end, he'd slept hard, and felt much better for it.

Washed and dressed – he hadn't brought a robe, and had regretted it with every shiver every morning – he made himself coffee, and sat in a patch of sunlight to consider the day and the options. There weren't many. Try to feed Beckett, pack up for going back to Manhattan, try to talk about where they were, and where they weren't, and where they should be. (_Together_, said a hopeful little voice in his head.) Even with coffee and sunshine, it wasn't exactly appealing.

He drank his coffee, and forced himself to write. Earlier than he had expected, there was noise from the floor above.

* * *

Beckett woke to find herself tightly wrapped around a pillow which smelled oddly like Castle: a heady mix of his cologne and simply him. He wasn't there, though, and she couldn't believe he would have sneaked into her bed without in some way announcing his presence. Actually, she couldn't believe he would have sneaked into her bed. She wasn't currently an attractive proposition. She hadn't been an attractive proposition for nearly a year, either, and no likelihood of becoming one. He might have said he still loved her, but as soon as he'd hit the reality he'd started to baulk. She buried her face in the pillow and tried not to think that it was likely the closest she'd get to burying her face in his shoulder.

And then she pulled on a brave face and got up.

Downstairs, dressed: there was coffee, and half a slice of toast. And Castle, of course, staring at his laptop and clearly utterly lost in some world that only existed inside his head and on his screen. She left him to it, and took her breakfast to a different corner, sipping and nibbling. It took her a long time to finish the coffee, and longer still to eat her toast.

When she finally finished, Castle was watching her rather than his screen.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm a bit tired still," she said, and manufactured a rueful smile.

Castle's penetrating look intensified. "Don't pretend," he said wearily. "Haven't we had enough of pretending you're fit?"

"You have."

"I have? What about you? Stop _lying_. How are we ever going to get anywhere if you keep lying about how you feel?"

"And you're not lying now?"

Castle gasped. "_I'm_ lying? How'd you get to that? I haven't lied to you."

"You're already tired of my problems. That's fine. Just leave me to it."

"I won't. We've been round this loop already and I thought" –

"That was before I was ill." She hadn't meant to say that. Or any of it. Illness seemed to have destroyed her filters. "I'm nothing but ill and _broken_. And you're already tired of looking after me. It won't get better. It never gets any better." Her head fell. "It's all too little, too late. I missed my chance." Her head came up. "Life doesn't give you second chances." Her arms curled around her thin frame.

"Don't be so dumb. You're _here_. You're alive. You _got_ a second chance and you're trying to push it away already. You want your job and you want me and you _said so_." His voice dropped. "And so did I."

She was still staring at her hands on the table when Castle picked them up and enclosed them in his.

"We have to talk this through, Kate. Otherwise it's going to fester."

"What's the point? It's never going to work so why even try?"

"We're going to talk anyway," Castle snapped, any good resolutions destroyed. "I'm fed up of never talking about anything and never resolving anything and never knowing where I stand. You don't let me in and then you blame me for not understanding something you never told me. Sure I _observe _you, but I'm not psychic. So we are going to talk until _I_ get what's going on in your messed up head. You say you love me and you tell Gates I'm your partner and less than twenty-four hours later you're straight back to _there's no point _and _I'll never be fixed_. You sure won't be fixed if you won't even try."

He surged up and out of the kitchen. The outer door swung back on its hinges and slammed where he'd stormed out.

Beckett put her head down on her arms and tried to find the energy to go back to her bed, but failed. She couldn't even find the energy to wipe her eyes, or stand up.

Castle got approximately twenty yards from the door before he realised what he'd done. Snapped, demanded Beckett talk, and then lost the remaining shreds of his temper and walked out before either of them could even think about a sensible discussion. Not that she'd been open to discussion. _What's the point_? It stung. Of course there was a point.

He thought there was a point. But it was already the same old problem: she wouldn't talk, so nothing ever changed. He stopped his angry strides away from the cabin – getting lost wouldn't improve the day – and began to think. _Why_ wouldn't she talk? She'd talked when he first got here. She'd rained hell down on Gates, and hadn't flinched when Gates rained hell right back at her. And yet this morning she was closing off and blaming him for being tired of her weakness. Why did she _think_ he was here, if he thought so little of her?

Well, he didn't have to stay. He could leave any time he liked, and let Beckett make her own explanations to Gates as to why she didn't return.

Yeah, right. He could at least stop lying to himself: he'd come flying up here when he was even angrier than he was now, and it wasn't because he intended to end things. He turned around, and started to plod back to the cabin, intent on having the conversation he'd originally wanted: tears, tantrums or tension notwithstanding. Whose was an open question.

It wasn't until he reached the door, found that it was shut and locked – oh, God, it had self-locked as it slammed shut – he had no key, and there was no answer to his knock, that he began to panic. He hammered more loudly, and yelled through the door. When that failed, he walked round and peered in the windows. He could just about see a hunched form in the same corner in which he'd left Beckett, knotted into itself. As he debated whether to rap on the glass, he could see the form quivering. Instantly, he felt unreasonably guilty. He shouldn't do, he told himself. He didn't get into this mess alone. Beckett had done plenty to help them along, starting with lying and ending with disappearing to this remote cabin to rot.

Curious, he watched for a moment or two, in which Beckett didn't lift her head and continued to tremble, and then rapped firmly on the window. When that didn't have an instant reaction, he rapped again, harder. She looked round, saw him – and looked away. His hand was already raised when he saw her weight shift and she heaved herself up to shuffle in the direction of the door. He stood his anger down, though it took more effort than he'd like, and hurried back round the cabin.

He needn't have hurried. It took a little while for the door to open, and when it did Beckett's fingers were white-knuckled on the handle. He couldn't help it. He really couldn't help catching her in and propping her up, and then it was only reasonable to pick her up and carry her back to the couch, and then it was only natural to keep her tucked in: so small and drawn and hurting.

And silent. He couldn't forget her silence, which loomed large in the quiet cabin. Yet still he held her close, his cheek lightly on her head, his arms locked around her. He touched her forehead, and found it hot.

"You're still sick," he murmured. "You should be back in bed, resting." She said nothing, passively resisting. "I won't go." There was a tiny movement. "I won't. We _are_ going to talk, but not till you can deal with it, and I'm not going anywhere till we have a proper conversation. More than half of what you're saying is the illness and until you're better I won't believe anything you say about not trying or not fixed or not _anything at all_," he finished forcefully. "And as soon as you're in bed and resting I'm calling Gates and telling her that Friday is off. You can't stay standing up for more than five minutes so you're not going back to the precinct." He picked up his phone and popped it in his pants pocket. "I don't understand how you managed to have a shower."

She'd stayed sitting on the bottom of the shower, that was how: not that she was going to admit it.

"You…"

"Can't? Sure I can. Just watch me." He stood up, hoisted Beckett up, carted her to her bedroom without the slightest effort, tucked her in, sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his phone back out. "Captain Gates?"

"Yeah, it's Castle. Beckett's still sick. She won't be back Friday." He looked at Beckett, white against the pillows. "She can't stand up for more than a minute." Stern sounds came from the phone. "Sure you can." He passed the phone to Beckett.

"Sir?" More stern sounds. "Uh…" Decisively iron-clad orders issued. "Sir."

Castle took the phone back. "See?"

"I do," Gates said coldly. "I recommend a hospital, or at the very least the nearest doctor. Detective Beckett's sick record currently consists of enforced leave for on the job injuries. Nothing else."

"Nothing?"

"Do I have to repeat myself? Nothing. One of you will report to me after you have attended a medical facility. Otherwise, you will both present yourself on Friday, as ordered."

Castle didn't make the mistake of reminding Gates that she couldn't give him orders. She held the whip hand, and it was transparently clear that the Mayor couldn't push him back if she threw him out again, so, practically, he'd better accept that she could.

"Okay," he said.

"Dismissed." Gates cut the call.

"Ouch."

"Uhhh?"

"I've to take you to a doctor." She tried to shake her head. "Apparently you're never sick. So it's doctor, or report on Friday. You're not fit for Friday, so doctor it will have to be." He shook his head at her. "I think it's overkill for the flu as well, but… she's your boss."

He regarded her critically and very closely. "You really don't look good, Beckett. Go to sleep. You can have some soup when you wake up again. I'll go to Malone and get some ice cream, and find a doctor." He smiled, and it felt real for the first time since the previous night. "Hasta la vista, baby," he quoted, and fled, just in case she could summon the energy to throw things.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_You didn't think it would be easy, did you?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

On the drive to Malone, during his sojourn there to find a medical centre, make an appointment for the next day, and undertake some more extensive grocery shopping than he'd let on – soup was another food that should be eaten sparingly – Castle had time to recover his composure, away from the stifling atmosphere of unspoken unhappiness and secrets of the cabin.

He'd meant what he said. They were going to talk this out, properly and fully: no evasions or subtext or lies – but not until she wasn't fainting and ill. He suddenly realised that he was set on edge by a frail, fragile Beckett: he could have coped with an on-the-job injury, because, well, it had happened before, and he'd more or less dealt with it as a necessary (if unpleasant) side effect of being a cop – even her being shot and – say it, Castle – _dying_: she'd recovered. Illness… somehow, stupidly, had hit him differently.

Oh. Oh no. Oh, God. How dumb could he be? _Ordinary_ people got sick. Beckett, his extraordinary KB, wasn't ordinary… and therefore she shouldn't get sick. So now that she'd got sick, just like any ordinary person – the pedestal he'd put her on had cracked, and he, subconsciously, not that that made it better, hadn't liked it. So he'd been snippy and tense and impatient with her weakness because, in his under-mind, she shouldn't be ordinary; shouldn't suffer ordinary things like flu.

But of course she did. Everyone did. Everyone had off days and bad moments and illnesses – he just never saw them. He suddenly wondered how much of that was Beckett playing up to "the extraordinary KB" view which he'd had of her, and how much that might have contributed to her _not_ bringing down her walls. Bringing down her walls might have meant showing her weaknesses to him.

Oh, God, this was one fucked-up mess.

He drove slowly back to the cabin, unpacked and put everything away, and then padded upstairs to find out whether Beckett was awake (unlikely) and/or recovering (possible). She was asleep, naturally, still white; but more relaxed, more spread out. She was also hugging a pillow close to her face, nose practically submerged in it. He gently shook her shoulder, and when that didn't work, stroked down her cheek until the lashes fluttered.

"Wake up. It's lunchtime. Soup for you."

"'M asleep."

"You have to eat. You've nothing left."

He helped her to sit up, and, buoyed on his earlier realisations and a modicum of understanding, cuddled her into his shoulder. One of her hands tried to come up to his chest, failed, and ended back on the quilt with a feeble hiss of utter frustration. Castle picked it up and put it on his other shoulder, and then tucked her back in and nuzzled softly into her hair.

"I've got you. I've got you," he repeated, and laid a hand over hers. In other circumstances, having her soft and yielding in his clasp would have been the ultimate in happiness, but… not now. Although, it was better than any other alternative in which she _wasn't_ in his arms.

"C'mon. You have to try to eat. Let's get you downstairs." He took the line of least resistance and carried her, to a worrying lack of complaint. He plopped her on the couch, had a thought, bounced back upstairs and came back down with a quilt, which he tucked round her. He'd intended to put the soup on the hob to heat, but as he snuggled the quilt over her, she extricated a hand, and tried to grip his. He sat down next to her, and twined his fingers into hers.

"Stay here," she sighed, trying to tighten her hold.

"Okay, but let me put the soup on first."

Her fingers dropped away. Castle rapidly set the soup to warming, and returned, picking up her fingers again and compounding the position by curling his other arm around her shoulders.

"Hate this," she muttered. He instantly drew his hand away. She whined miserably. "Not that." He put it back, and she made an attempt to cuddle in. "Being sick. I can't do anything. Pathetic. Needy." He didn't say anything. It was rather too close to his own, earlier, thoughts. He petted instead.

"Soup's ready."

It all seemed so mundane. He wanted to have the conversation they needed to have; he wanted to hug her properly and kiss her deeply; he wanted to tell her he'd slept better next to her the previous night than he had done in months.

He _actually_ detached himself, put the soup out with plenty of bread, and then conveyed Beckett to the table, where she spilled less and ate more than the previous meal. After that, she looked much brighter, so Castle (without bothering to ask) put on the kettle and brewed coffee while she sat on the couch, wrapped in her quilt.

"Better?" he asked, which was rather dumb, since her first mug of coffee hadn't touched the sides. She sipped the second more slowly.

"Yeah." There was a faint hint of a Beckett smile. "Coffee helps."

"This helps, too," Castle smiled, and put his arm back around the Beckett-burrito of quilt and woman. "Keeping you warm."

She stared down into her mug, and watched the tremors of the liquid. "Why? Why are you doing all this when all that happens is I hurt you and I'm broken?"

He wouldn't have chosen that moment to start the conversation, but she had opened the door, and he'd better walk right through it before it slammed shut again.

"I told you why." He took a fortifying gulp of coffee. "Beckett…Kate… um… Look, just listen to it all before you jump to conclusions." Another gulp. Beckett set her coffee down before it spilled, splashing dangerously high. He took a moment to think, but it didn't seem to make much difference to his roiling mind. She was rigid and white.

"I heard you in Interrogation – you know that – and I just left. I couldn't believe you'd lied to me all this time. I thought you'd just been stringing me along." She made a noise, as if she was about to speak, and stopped. "I was angry, and hurt, and I didn't want to talk to you. So I just ignored your calls, and went away for the weekend. When I came back the boys didn't tell me what had happened – I hadn't spoken to them on the Friday about anything except the case because I thought you were avoiding me and I didn't want to see you if you weren't going to apologise and you never showed up so that proved you never cared" – he managed a breath – "and then they were ordered not to tell me. Gates had hauled them in and reamed them out and then she did the same to me and said you were on indefinite leave. And then the boys said you'd had a PTSD episode."

He gulped down the rest of his coffee and clung to the mug.

"So I texted, but you didn't answer and I was angry all over again. The boys found you for me, and I was going to come up here and tell you what I thought and finish it." He dry-swallowed. "Or not finish it. But I just wanted you to admit you weren't interested and stringing me along and it had never been real. I wanted you to tell me the truth." Another swallow. "And then you were totally a mess and then you collapsed." All he could see was her dark hair. "And then you said you wanted to forget everything because you died – and then you said you wished you'd stayed dead." He ran out of breath, into a horrible silence.

Finally she spoke. "So you stayed to stop me eating my gun."

"No! Well, yes, but that wasn't all of it. I _told _you. I still love you. I couldn't let you" – he took another breath – "die. I wouldn't let you the first time and I'm not starting now." He inhaled, more softly. "But I stayed because you love me too." His arm tightened. "Because you couldn't lie about that. You told me the truth even if… even if I don't agree with you because I think it can be fixed. So I stayed. Because there's a way through this." He paused, prayed, and spoke. "There's a way for us."

She turned, hesitant and fragile – but turned into him: leaned against his shoulder where he could bring both arms around her and hold her close. "We can make it work, if… if you wanna try?"

"Yes…" His heart soared. "But…if it doesn't?" Her face was buried in his sweater.

"It will," Castle said with total (and faked) confidence.

* * *

The day passed with Beckett dozing on the couch, seemingly unable to hold her eyes open for more than a few minutes. Castle wrote, never away from her for long. Too early in the evening, he helped her upstairs – more carry than cuddle – waited while she forced herself through a short night-time routine, and tucked her into bed. Much later, he succumbed to his own instincts and desire, and slipped in next to her, where he needn't be worried about any lack of audible noise because he could feel her still-shallow breathing right beside him.

In the morning, he woke to find himself being used as a combined pillow and comfort object, with Beckett, deeply asleep, sprawled across him. His arms had obviously found sense while sleeping, because they were cradling her.

He detached himself without disturbing her, and, remembering that they were due at the medical centre that morning; showered, shaved, dressed, and put the kettle on; had a first cup of coffee and only then went to wake Beckett, who, he thought, might need longer than her usual time, whatever that was, to shower, wash, and dress.

Almost an hour later, they rolled into Malone with enough time to park and reach the medical centre at Beckett's current snail-like pace.

"Hey," Castle said to the receptionist. "Appointment for Kate Beckett, at eleven?"

"Oh, sure. Take a seat, and the doctor will see you shortly."

He steered Beckett to a seat and kept an arm around her. Shortly she was called in. Castle, tactfully, remained in the waiting room.

* * *

Beckett managed, with some effort, to assess the doctor, who was around her age: calm, efficient and professional.

"I'm Dr Cartwright," she said. "Now, I understand you've been sick?"

"It's just flu," Beckett said, shaky and defensive. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"How long have you been ill?"

"Uh… more than a week, maybe?"

"Let's take a history, and then I'll listen to your lungs and chest."

Shortly, Beckett was stretched out on the examining bed, answering a number of questions to the doctor's evident satisfaction.

"Now, have you had any previous problems with your heart or lungs?"

Beckett swallowed against the sudden block in her throat. "I…"

"Yes?"

"I was shot" – and it swallowed her up again. _Pain and shock and falling and Castle ploughing into her and pressing down and it hurt so bad and didn't stop and then everything was black._

"Mr Beckett!"

Castle, scribbling, didn't register.

"Mr Beckett! You!"

Uh, he wasn't – _oh shit_! "Yes? Sorry."

"Your wife needs you." _Oh, shit. _What the hell had happened? It wasn't the right moment to correct the doctor. He hurried after her.

"Beckett – Kate!" He hauled her into his arms. "I'm here, love. It's okay. I'm here." He rocked her as if she were a child, until the clawing agony left her face and her tense limbs eased.

"What's going on here?" the doctor asked.

"She got shot in the line of duty – she's a cop. It…left some scars."

"So I observe. How bad?"

"The bullet nicked her heart and lung – she flatlined twice."

The doctor blinked. "I see. Will she be okay, or do you need any meds?"

"She's having therapy for the flashbacks."

"Good."

Throughout, Beckett stayed still and quiet, remaining in Castle's protective embrace.

"Now, Mr Beckett" – even then Beckett didn't react – "I took most of a history and I understand that your wife" – still nothing – "had flu. Is there a specific concern? If she's capable of getting here, I don't quite see why it's necessary now, when she's recovering."

"Um…" Castle said inarticulately. "I guess… she's never sick. Ever. And she's spent a week or more in bed, and barely eaten, and she's exhausted, and what with the shooting and everything…"

"You thought it was best to get her checked over."

"Yeah."

"Okay." The tone said _that's not quite so dumb after all_. "Mrs Beckett?"

"Yes?" Beckett managed to push out.

"I need to listen to your chest to make sure your lungs are clear. Do you want your husband to stay?"

There was a half-pause. "No. It's okay. I'll be fine." Castle released her, and exited, a tiny tad miffed at his exclusion.

The door shut behind Castle, Beckett slowly removed her t-shirt. The doctor's eyes widened, but she maintained professional calm. Beckett didn't repeat her previous mistake of mentioning anything about her shooting. Cool hands placed the stethoscope and the doctor listened.

"Okay. Heart a bit elevated –that's not surprising. I'll take your blood pressure in a moment." "Your lungs sound clear, so that's good. I don't want to find walking pneumonia, and with your history, it's good that we checked." She settled back at her desk, and then competently took a blood pressure, which was normal. "There's nothing we can do. Antibiotics are useless against flu, and there's no point in a shot now: all you can do is rest, drink plenty of fluids, try to eat, don't over-exert yourself, and let your husband take care of you." While Beckett tried to find words to correct her assumption, the doctor smiled fondly. "It doesn't look like that's a problem." She straightened her papers. "If you have any difficulty breathing, or develop a cough or throat problems, or you aren't feeling better in a few days – it's normal to be very tired, but if you have a temperature – come back. Nice to meet you."

Beckett found herself trudging out of the doctor's office without ever having the chance to correct her assumptions. She sat down next to Castle, and hunted for some energy to get herself back to the car – or even out of the medical centre.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just rest, and come back if I get a cough, temperature or trouble breathing."

Castle smiled. "That's good. Let's go home." He put an arm round her waist, which unobtrusively supported her as she struggled to stand, and left it there as she plodded out, all the way to the car.

Beckett sank into the seat of Castle's car, and by the time he'd started the engine, had yielded to the demands of her eyelids to close. Five minutes down the road, and she was soundly asleep. Castle flicked a glance over her, and drove home so smoothly that a gnat wouldn't have felt a bump.

* * *

"Dinner time," Castle murmured.

Beckett's eyelids flickered, and then firmly shut again. "No." She snuggled into her pillow and further under the quilt.

"Yes. Dinner. Put on that robe and I'll carry you down."

"C'n walk."

"Don't believe you," he singsonged.

"Can." Her eyes opened, and glared at him. Albeit it was a feeble glare, it was a glare. She hoisted herself to sitting, and took a deep breath before swinging her legs out of the bed. "See?" He handed her the robe, and she shrugged into it before standing up. He just about managed not to reach out and steady her, though from the twist of her lips she'd seen the abortive movement. "I can do it."

Castle went down the stairs ahead of her, even so, in order to catch her if she stumbled. He reached the bottom a full thirty seconds before Beckett, but she descended on her own.

"Go sit down while I put dinner out."

"What is it?"

"Chicken fettucine. Easy to eat – and not soup."

"Still chicken."

"It's good for flu," Castle said easily, grinning. "There's plenty of fish in the freezer, if you want something else tomorrow." She made a face. "I guess so. Once a week is enough for me."

"Yeah. Me too."

Dinner passed without drama.

"Coffee?" Beckett asked.

"Yes, please, but I'm making it. You're going to do what the doctor said, and rest."

"You sound like my Dad." Castle pouted. "You do." But there was no real snap or snark to her words, and she allowed him to steer her to the couch, make coffee, and curl around her without a single protest. In fact, she nestled in, as if seeking warmth, which he was delighted to provide. She leant on his shoulder, and snuggled.

Snuggling was excellent, but pretty soon after she finished her coffee Beckett's eyelids were drooping and her frame was lax.

"Bedtime for you, Detective. I'll carry you up."

"I don't need to be carried."

"But I want to," Castle said, and made the point moot by sweeping her up and doing so.

He waited outside while she changed and prepared for bed – although nothing was said, it was totally clear that Beckett wanted privacy – and then tapped and walked in. He had a thought as she slid between the sheets.

"Why didn't you want me to stay while the doctor listened to your chest?"

Beckett coloured painfully, not answering. "Scars," she eventually muttered into her pillow.

Oh. Ah. Yes. Well. He suddenly realised that at no point had he seen Beckett without some form of covering. She'd always had a top on, and even when it had been a soaked t-shirt it had hidden her skin. He hadn't looked when she had been in the depths of a flashback.

"Okay." She unfurled slightly, and peeped out at him. He smiled. "Go to sleep. We'll talk about it some other time." _Along with everything else._ She let her eyes drop shut, and he bent down to kiss her forehead lightly. "Till tomorrow."

"T'l t'morrow."

Much later, he slipped in beside her, laid a gentle arm around her, and slept soundly all night, slipping away before she woke.

As the week went on, and the next one began, the days bled into one another. Beckett gradually stayed awake for longer, and was more coherent and alive when she was awake. She ate better, too. There were no more flashbacks, though there were also no more triggering events. By Friday, she seemed almost wholly better, and on Saturday, Castle broached the subject of returning to Manhattan.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests who cannot be thanked directly._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"I think we ought to go back to Manhattan," Castle opened, over breakfast. "You're pretty much better now, and…well, I don't think you'll be able to put Gates off much longer."

Beckett swallowed, and looked at her empty coffee mug, paling.

"I guess," she dragged.

"But before we leave," he ventured, "we need to talk."

All her remaining colour drained in one instant.

"Not like that. Do you really think I'd have stayed this long just to ditch you now?"

"We're not dating."

"I think we've passed the dating stage. Not that I wouldn't like to do some normal date-type things, like restaurants and movies and making out, but since I've been taking care of you for nearly three weeks I think we can skip a lot of the preliminaries."

Beckett didn't say anything for a moment. "I…didn't we talk? I thought…didn't I?"

"You said," Castle said grimly, "that you wanted to forget everything about the day you were shot because you couldn't bear to remember dying. And then you said that you'd tried and tried and couldn't forget and that _I'd_ given up. And you lied because you thought I'd leave if you said you wanted to forget that day because you _assumed_ I'd think you meant you wanted to ignore what I said."

"Which is what you did," she said bleakly. Castle stopped short. "You found out I remembered and you left. I thought you'd left because I wasn't fixed. But you left because _you_ assumed I was ignoring what you said because I didn't care."

"Because you never did anything to show me otherwise!"

"What did you think I was saying on the swings after your book signing? I was trying – oh, what's the point? It doesn't matter what I say because it's all taken too long and I'm not fixed and you're never going to put up with it." She blinked furiously. "At least I've still got a job."

"Stop it! Just stop assuming you know what I'll think without even talking to me!"

"You do it too! This isn't just on me."

"If you ever talked to me properly" –

"Like you do? You never told me what you felt till I was _dead_!"

"You never told me at all! You told me to get out 'cause you didn't want to hear the truth."

"Truth? So the truth is you just want to be _friends?_ From where I'm standing you weren't telling the truth that night either – or you weren't telling it when I was lying on the ground dying from being shot" – she broke off, sheet white, and dropped to the table.

Castle, angry as he was, recognised the issue instantly. The discussion they had to have was going to go nowhere good if, every time it began, any reference to her shooting triggered an episode. He wondered why it was so much worse now than – oh. Oh, no. No no no. Because nobody had talked about it. Certainly not Beckett. Oh, no. Hell. This wasn't helping anything.

Surely the therapist had mentioned the shooting? She could never have been passed fit for work if she'd fallen apart like this… oh. Oh, no. She thought she had him, Castle – and she'd been managing to mask or block the episodes for just as long as she thought he was there; just as long as she thought he cared for her; and just as long as she truly thought she was getting towards being able to admit her feelings. Oh, _hell_.

While he was thinking, he'd gathered her up and taken her to the couch, cuddled her into him and kept her close. Even like this, semi-catatonic and devastated by PTSD, she felt right in his arms: perfectly sized, perfectly fitting; just plain perfect.

After a couple more minutes, her eyes levered themselves open: revealing sheer terror before she dropped her lids again.

"It happened again," she said miserably. "I never had these till that bombing case and now it's all the time."

Castle said absolutely nothing about his conclusions, instead patting her shoulder comfortingly. "Go back to your therapist. In the meantime, stay here."

"We – I – have to go back." She shivered.

"We," Castle emphasised. "Even if you're okay to drive now, I'm following you all the way back." He grimaced. "Anyway, Gates expects to see both of us." His grimace turned pained. "I suppose we'd better call her and say you're coming back."

"Ugh."

"Yeah."

He took out his phone, and texted rather than calling. It seemed safer.

She shivered again. "And you want to talk."

"Not if it's going to trigger your PTSD every time. I…I think we should wait till you've seen the therapist."

Her eyes widened: the hazel huge and hurting. "You don't want to?"

"I do want to. But not like this, Beckett. Not when it sets you off every time because we can't avoid the elephant in the room."

"But…"

"It'll keep. We'll get there. Just…not now."

In default of further comment, he hugged her close. To his surprise, she hugged him back, and leaned in, dropping her head on to his shoulder. He ignored the mumble of _never going to be fixed_. It could be fixed, and it would be fixed.

* * *

The drive back to Manhattan was long, punctuated by more stops than Castle would have needed were he not tailing Beckett. He pulled up behind her at her apartment, and was privately horrified by how pale and shaky she was.

"Do you want a coffee?"

"Yes, thanks." He followed her up to her apartment, refusing to let her carry her own bag, and, as soon as the door shut, slipped his arm around her. "C'mere," he murmured, tucking her in. "Lemme hold you." She looked up, smaller in the sneakers which were the only shoes she'd had at the cabin: pallid and unhealthily drawn, despite the days in which he'd cooked properly for them and ensured she had eaten something. Likely she hadn't eaten enough, but pushing her would only have caused far more problems. She'd taken what she could cope with.

Meanwhile, she'd cuddled into his protective embrace, leaning on him as if she needed the support, still looking up, eyes dull with her tiredness, stance stooped.

"I wouldn't have come back, if you hadn't been there."

Castle startled. It was one thing to have thought that. It was quite another to have it confirmed. He hugged her tighter, and leaned his forehead against hers. "But I was, and you have." He walked her to the couch and then, leaving her there, made coffee. She didn't argue, as she hadn't argued with any of his calm assumptions that he would take care of her, since she'd fallen apart with the flu.

As had also become normal, with coffee came the slight, unconscious snuggling into his broad strength, his arm around her.

"I would have given up," she continued, as if there hadn't been a break, and then shuddered. "I had given up." A convulsive swallow. "I… I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?" Castle asked very cautiously.

"Face Gates… go back… keep trying." There was a tiny sound, but he couldn't see her face. "It's not just not getting better, it's worse. You saw it. It's all going wrong and I don't know how to fix it."

He dropped a tiny kiss on her dark hair, so light she might not even have noticed. It was further than he'd dared go at any time in the cabin: barring the goodnight pecks on her forehead. Even though he'd slipped into bed beside her every night for the previous nine days; even though he'd woken with his arms around her and her head pillowed on his chest – he hadn't tried, or dared, to kiss her.

Tonight he wouldn't be beside her, he'd be in his own home, alone, as she would be. He cuddled her closer, and kissed her hair again, then rested his cheek against her head. There was another small sound, which this time was contented, and a tentative hand rose to his shoulder. He turned her into him, and somehow her small movement ended with her on his lap, close-held and clinging to him within his clasp; her face nuzzled into his neck; her lips against his skin – but it wasn't a kiss, just as his mouth against her hair wasn't a kiss.

Until it was. Until her lips moved against his jaw, and fleetingly landed, as light as a butterfly, as brief as a summer breeze. Until he dipped his head and that same fleeting brush of lips grazed his. Until they stayed, and touched his again. Until her lips parted, only a fraction, and invited his to do the same.

He couldn't reject her. He never had been able to reject her: it was why he'd followed her all this time, why he'd insisted Ryan track her, why he'd gone upstate after her, and why he was here now. She was in his heart and soul, in his bones and sinews and his veins.

And so he kissed her back. He could never have made any other choice. He was soft, careful: a gentle, delicate exploration of her lips, a tiny taste of tongue along those same lips, not quite entering, leaving the next move entirely to her, though all his pent-up desire wanted to dive in and never emerge.

She was equally tentative: none of his Beckett's usual positive, breakneck forward momentum: going hell-for-leather and then going for broke. Her kiss felt unsure, uncertain that it would be returned or welcomed; that at any moment his response would be to withdraw. He held her tighter: his fingers stroked at her shoulder and waist, trying to show without saying that there would be no rejection, no withdrawal. Words… words had consequences, just then, and consequences weren't what they needed. He couldn't bear that awful absence, caused by careless words in an interrogation room. But yet he didn't try to deepen their kiss, only brought her close, and cossetted her, and hoped that she could take strength from him.

An unmeasured time later, she dropped away, returning her head to his shoulder. He didn't loosen his clasp, but laid his cheek on her hair once more, as they had begun.

"I have to go home," he murmured, some time later.

"I know," she whispered wistfully, and took her hand from his shoulder, turning out of his grip, standing up as he did, lashes down to hide her eyes from his downward gaze. He hugged her close again. He knew that he had to leave, but he felt as if he was abandoning her.

"I'll be back tomorrow, after lunchtime," he said.

"Okay."

"And then on Monday I'll be at the precinct with you."

"Yeah."

He thought he heard her breathe _please be there_, but he couldn't be sure, and didn't ask. Reluctantly, he released her, and left.

Once the door had shut, Beckett fell back on to her couch, trying not to open the door again and beg Castle to come back. Without him, everything was bleak: more difficult than it should be. Even putting the coffee mugs in the dishwasher seemed too hard. She made herself do it anyway, and then dragged herself to her bedroom and, making a further effort, ran a bath. Lying in the steaming water, the scent and smoothness of her usual products helped her feel a little more like herself. Even so, she was so drained by the long drive that she collapsed into her unmade bed, still as she had left it three weeks before, tugged the covers around herself and crashed into heavy, nightmarishly unrestful sleep.

Castle trailed home, and spent some time with his family, who were, by the time he'd finished talking, a lot less annoyed by his disappearance and a lot more concerned for Beckett. His mother offered to make her a strengthening chicken broth, but Castle, who was pretty certain that his mother's soup would be more likely to poison than to heal, dissuaded her.

When they were satisfied, he repaired to his silent, lonely study, opened his laptop, and began to write. He didn't emerge for four hours, by which time Nikki had developed, suffered, and recovered (with Rook's help) from flu. She didn't, however, have PTSD or depression. It was merely…a little human weakness, which would make her more rounded. She wasn't a good patient, either, unlike Beckett, who'd simply slept, and done as she was told.

Finally, he washed and fell into bed, and was ridiculously uncomfortable without his Beckett there beside him. He didn't sleep well: reaching out and finding nothing; jerked awake without the soft, shallow breathing to match his. When he woke, he made breakfast for Alexis with some relief that he could concentrate on something simple and pleasant, and – which he hadn't done for quite some time – bestowed a bear hug and a kiss on her before she departed to meet friends for study at a ridiculously early hour – that was, before ten. He was hypersensitive, this morning, to the fragility of relationships and of life.

He drank the rest of his coffee, and decided that he couldn't go anywhere for another hour.

Three hours later he surfaced from another bout of intensive writing, squawked as he saw the time, grabbed his light jacket, and dashed out to Beckett's apartment.

She was awake. That was the first good point. She was dressed, which was the second. Both points were negated by her lack of make-up, but one was restored because he could smell the faint scent of her usual body and hair products. And then she smiled, stepped forward and hugged him, which restored all points and added a further ten, or hundred, or million.

Eventually, he managed to regain enough brainpower to push the door shut with his foot, which meant he needn't let go of Beckett, who seemed to be perfectly content to stay tucked close against him, leaning on his shoulder and breathing softly against his neck, lax and… oh. He was holding her up. Oh.

"I think we should sit down," he suggested.

"'Kay. Coffee?"

"In a minute." _When I'm sure you won't fall over if I let you go_. They sat down, and Castle cuddled her in as closely as he could. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah." Reflexively, she yawned. The dark circles that had been so prominent in previous weeks were no less so. "I had a bath, and went to bed." A hint of colour tinged her cheeks. "I didn't wake up till an hour ago."

"You needed the rest. That cabin's a long way – why there?" he asked.

"It's been in Dad's family a while, so… history, I guess. It was his grandma and grandad's, and I think it was her parents' before that. We used to go up every summer."

"Mm," Castle agreed, and didn't say _and you spent a summer up there a year back, on your own, with no help, hiding from the world and with no back-up if anything went wrong. You would have quietly died up there three weeks ago if I hadn't come after you, so what would have happened in the summer, huh?_ Even the thought gave him cold chills, even now that she was safely home and safe in his arms; because she wasn't fixed, and she wasn't safe from her own illness. Everything was cobweb-fragile, until she went back to her therapist and really talked it through. "Shall I make coffee?" was all he said.

"I can do it."

He heard an echo of _I'm fine_, which he disbelieved on principle, but… "Okay," he said. "I'll sit here and be good."

"You?" she teased. "Okay then." He pouted, she rolled her eyes at him, and when she came back with a tray of coffee everything was nearer to normal than…well, almost before it all came crashing down in Interrogation.

It was such a shame that he was going to have to spoil it.

"Um…" he said after gulping down much of his coffee, "about tomorrow."

She shrank. "Oh, God. Gates. And I said all that. Oh God. She already hated me." Abruptly, she buried her face in his shoulder. "I can't do this."

"You already did. You faced her down" –

"And she'll fire me if I do it again."

"No, she'll fire you if you're that insulting again." He paused. "Though I'd have paid a fortune to see her face when you told her she was jealous, and double to see it when you told her you'd fight her all the way through 1PP."

"I did? Oh God."

"Why don't we just go in as normal and see what happens?" He petted her shoulder, which was all he could reach without moving her.

"I guess there's no alternative." She sounded deeply uncertain. "I think…I'd better book a slot with Dr Burke."

"Mm?" he encouraged.

"I guess I need it." Her head drooped. "I thought I was getting better," she whispered.

Castle simply removed her cup from her hand and cuddled her closer, dropping tiny kisses on her hair but not trying for anything else: distraction didn't seem like a good plan, and anyway she needed comfort.

"You will." _You have to_.

"And when I don't?"

"You're assuming you won't already. Stop doing that. You have to believe you'll get better."

"It's been a year already," she said desolately, "and I'm not fixed at all. It's worse than when I came back. I just wanted… I was going to talk to you but Espo interrupted and then" – she made a hopeless gesture – "I had an" – a gulp – "episode and you were gone and…" She stopped.

"You were going to _talk_ to me?" Castle squeaked, recovering enough breath to articulate.

"I thought I was _fixed_. If I was fixed, I could…" Another stop.

"Could what?" he asked, intensely interested. Last time, he'd surmised it. Maybe she'd say it herself?

Scarlet crept across her face, and she turned away from him. "I…I didn't want to waste any more time." She swallowed. "Because I thought I was fixed." Another gulp. "But I wasn't and I'm not and it's just as hopeless as after I was shot because I can't do it. I just can't bring down the wall."

Her shoulders shook. Castle's grip tightened, and he turned her back, tucking her against his chest. His shirt became damp.

"Except you are. You're trying to talk to me, and I'm talking to you, and that's more than we ever managed before."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Castle had spent a mere hour or so with Beckett, on Sunday, leaving shortly before dinner time with a promise to meet her at the precinct at the start of shift on Monday: the time at which Gates had ordered them to present themselves. They hadn't come to any conclusions, and they hadn't even tried to discuss anything important. Castle had felt they would simply go round the same loop, and he wasn't going to do _that_ without Beckett being back in therapy.

But now, here they were. He'd brought coffee, and her eyes had lit with relief and welcome pleasure. He took the message that she had been unsure where she stood, even now.

"Didn't you think I would?" he said.

"I did… but…" She shrugged, hopelessly.

The boys scooted up. "You back?"

"No." She winced as their faces fell.

"Then…"

"Gates ordered me in."

"And me," Castle added.

"Oh. She wants to see us too."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"All four of us?" Ryan whimpered. "Oh, shit."

They trudged to Gates's office as if it were the place of execution, and knocked. Somehow, Ryan ended up being the first one in, with Castle bringing up the rear only because he was unobtrusively putting an arm around Beckett's thin waist.

"Close the door," Gates ordered, and only then looked up and around. There was a noticeable hitch and intake of breath when she examined Beckett, followed by a pursing of Gates's lips. Castle was no longer touching her, but he wasn't far away: poised to catch Beckett if required.

The silence stretched, until every one of them was ready to break.

Captain Gates regarded the four people in her office with frigid annoyance. She was going to put an end to their collective idiocy and their apparent belief that they should conceal from her relevant and vital information affecting their performance and fitness for work. She was also, privately, utterly horrified by Beckett's drawn, ill appearance and semi-skeletal size – and although Castle was clearly protective, the previous behaviour of that duo didn't incline Gates to think that they would be sensible. She amped up the intimidation level, and, when she was sure that they were all sufficiently unnerved, began.

"When I took over this precinct, I was led to believe that this team of detectives was one of the best in the city. Certainly your clearance rate supported that, and despite your civilian hanger-on" – Castle winced, Beckett, Ryan and Esposito scowled – "whose presence was purely politically motivated, it did not drop." She raked them with her glare. "Therefore, I am extraordinarily disappointed to find that you are apparently incapable of functioning as a team." No-one spoke, though it was clear to Gates that Beckett was damming words up behind her pinched mouth and clamped-shut jaws. The other detectives were obviously taking their cues from Beckett.

"The crass stupidity that all three of you have displayed, with Mr Castle's enthusiastic and ill-judged connivance, is beyond belief. Detective Beckett has concealed her unfitness for duty, and all three of you assisted. Give me one good reason why I should not reduce all of you to traffic duty and remove Mr Castle from the precinct permanently."

More silence, though Gates expected Beckett, at least, to comment. Her knuckles were white, but she said nothing.

"Your behaviour could have led, at _any_ point in the last ten months, to the injury or death of police or civilians. All of you are equally culpable. Detective Ryan, I would have thought that your undercover experience would have taught you the importance of each team member being utterly reliable and the necessity to inform your senior officers of any matter which might damage that reliability. It seems you have failed to appreciate that lesson. Detective Esposito, I can only assume that being a sniper in the Army, a solitary role, has meant that you do not appreciate the value of team bonding or team support. Neither of you have displayed the behaviour I expect in a well-functioning team, and worse, you have endangered your colleagues and the public. You disgrace the name of New York's Finest" –

"You will leave my team out of this," Beckett bit, enraged. "They did it at _my_ order and you can rake me down for it but you won't do it to them."

"You have no authority whatsoever to give them orders. You may be the senior detective but that does _not_ allow you to order others around. Even had you the authority, it was their duty to ignore such an inappropriate order and report to me. Your so-called _team dynamic_ does not excuse their failure nor your arrogant assumption of authority which you _do not have_."

Gates turned back to the cowering terror of Ryan and Esposito, ignoring Beckett entirely.

"I cannot say I am impressed by your complete capitulation to a stronger character. I had not thought that either of you was weak, but I am rapidly revising that view. Since you are unable to think for yourselves, you have no further part in this discussion. I will inform you of my decisions in due course." She paused. "As Detective Beckett will not be returning to the precinct for some time, I suggest you spend that time acquiring some spine and some intelligence, as well as understanding that friendship and team spirit does not mean unthinking acquiescence to the stupidity and downright dangerous behaviour of a far stronger character." She glared. "A _team_ means that you support each other in an appropriate way. It does _not_ mean assisting a so-called team member in their efforts to harm themselves. I suggest you reflect on that."

"Detective Beckett, Mr Castle, remain. Detectives Ryan and Esposito, dismissed." The words _with extreme prejudice_ hung on the silent air. They skedaddled.

"Detective Beckett. Your behaviour has been, as I have already advised you, unconscionably _stupid_ and worse, dangerous. You should have informed me of your PTSD immediately you became aware of it, and certainly during the sniper case when it affected your work. You put your team and civilians – and I do not only mean Mr Castle – at risk. That is not what I expect from any member of my precinct."

Beckett wobbled alarmingly, but Gates had no intention of allowing her any concession.

"Detectives Ryan and Esposito have been informed of their formal reprimands for their behaviour. You may also consider yourself formally reprimanded. The next time you conceal relevant information of this nature, you will be removed from the NYPD. If your team does so, whether at your request or not, they will also be fired."

Beckett winced, and wobbled again. Castle moved in to support her, ignoring Gates's harsh stare entirely. She had expected no less from him, and was merely surprised that he had waited that long. Beckett did not appear to be particularly impressed by his action. It was time for the second part of this extremely annoying, but entirely necessary, interview.

Gates regarded her detective and annoying tag-along with entirely sincere ire and irritation. "I have been observing the dynamic between you since I took over this precinct. Your team solve rate was exceptional. Your personal dynamic redefines dysfunctional. If you wish to continue as" – her lips twisted as if she'd bitten a crab-apple – "partners, that needs to change. As part of your therapy, Detective, you will include discussions about that. Mr Castle will also attend."

"Couples counselling?" Castle squeaked.

"What?" Beckett managed more energy than in weeks.

"If you choose to call it such. I _will not _have such an emotional mess in my bullpen. You will not return until I have confirmation from the therapist directly that all of your issues have been addressed – both your PTSD _and_ your interpersonal issues. Dismissed."

Castle didn't bother hiding his physical support of Beckett as they exited Gates's office. Since neither of them looked back, they didn't see Gates's satisfied expression. She had no intention of firing anyone. She also had no intention of _actually _putting any reprimands on anybody's files. She wasn't having anyone except her disciplining that team. They got results, and she wasn't running the slightest risk that some bureaucrat or other Captain would look at their files and bring them down. Still, they had collectively needed a sharp reprimand and reminder, and she hadn't shirked that. Nor would she, were it needed again.

* * *

"Joint counselling?" Beckett choked, swiftly cut off as the boys marched over to them, regarding Castle's supportive arm dyspeptically. Castle didn't move the arm. Beckett didn't move out of its embrace, until she suddenly sat down, white.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Esposito shot at her. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically. "I had the flu."

"The flu," Ryan repeated, sceptically. "So you went all the way out to the boonies because you had the flu. Right."

"I _went_ because I'd been removed from duty. Which I still am, so I'm leaving before Gates kicks me to the kerb." She stood up, wobbled horribly, and started for the elevator, Castle falling in behind her.

"That doesn't tell us anything," Espo growled, following them. "You had an episode and then went off the grid and you expect us just to ignore it?"

She turned, face pallid, eyes flaming. "Yes."

The elevator doors slammed shut before he could come up with an answer.

Castle didn't hesitate before catching her: she could barely stand. "Home." She sagged into him. "Car keys. You can't drive." She didn't even argue.

At Beckett's apartment, Castle steered her to the couch and left her there while he made the coffee that he'd needed since Gates had started in on them all. That done, he put Beckett's in front of her, and slugged back half of his as soon as it wouldn't scald his throat.

"You didn't cut Espo any slack," he said, eliminating any hint of accusation from his voice.

"What good would another episode in the precinct do?" she asked rhetorically. "I'm in enough shit without that. Didn't you hear Gates?"

"Yeah. She doesn't love you three."

"Four. She doesn't love you either."

"Never did," Castle said comfortably. "I'm used to it. But you were pretty hard on Espo. He's worried about you. They both are."

She shrank into herself, still tremulous. "I can't deal with them. I can't deal with _me_, let alone them."

"Let me," Castle said, before he engaged brain. He took a breath. "You tell me what you want them to know, and I'll do it." She stared. He cuddled her in. "Think about it."

She muttered something that sounded like _do I have to_?, breathed in, and said much more audibly, "Joint counselling?"

"Urgh. I thought about it once with Gina, but…" he stopped. Beckett didn't pursue it, much to his surprise. He restarted. "It wouldn't have worked, and we both knew it. There was nothing to rescue."

She was still silent. Castle held her in the crook of his arm, and waited. Obdurate resistance thickened the air.

"I can't do it." More waiting. "I could barely talk to him on my own. I can't do it when someone else is there. I just can't." She began, very softly, to cry. "It doesn't matter if I want to or not, I can't. It won't work. It'll never work and if it doesn't work nothing'll ever be fixed." Tears dripped down her face. "I'm not fixable."

"That's not true. You're still recovering – I know that because you're crying at the slightest thing and you never cry – or not where anyone can see." She jerked. "Oh. I get it. You don't have to be a superhero. Not with me."

"You only shadowed me _because_ you thought I was a hero. That was the whole point. You made Nikki Heat into a hero and you based her on me. You wanted a hero and a muse."

"I want _you_. You're not some fictional character. Fiction's always simpler than real life. Characters – they're not _real_. They're – some bits are a little exaggerated, some bits are ignored. Characters are there for a story, they're not a carbon copy. You leave things out because they're not part of the story. No-one wants to read about Nikki blowing her nose fifteen times in half an hour because she caught a cold. It's not relevant to her catching a killer." He turned her round so he could see her face. "You're not Nikki. She's not you. And I don't follow you just because you're a hero – and you _are_: you catch killers – but because you're _you_. All of you, not just the bits you let me see."

He breathed. "You never let me see anything's wrong. You wouldn't let me see you last summer, you didn't let me see you were upset that first summer or when you ditched Demming. Even in that sniper case you wouldn't let anyone help you." Another thick, dragging breath. "This is the _very first time_ you've ever let me help you and you're saying _you're not fixable_? You're _wrong_. You're letting me help so it _is_ fixable because for the first time ever you've let me in."

She turned into him so he couldn't see her face, but his shirt was damp in seconds. His arms closed around her.

"We can fix it. I don't have to hear what you say to the therapist. Like mediation, in separate rooms, if you want, or even separate times. But you already told me the important things, so that's okay."

He kissed her hair, and cossetted, as his shirt suffered. Gradually, her hand crept to his shoulder, and she lay still and quiet against his chest.

"I'm so tired of never being enough," she whispered.

"You are enough. Enough for me." He kissed her hair again, and tipped her face up so that he could see the reddened, swollen eyes, the tracks down her cheeks. "Come here," he said, and in instant contradiction leaned down and touched his lips to hers, barely there, lifting away a fraction later.

She regarded him piteously, eyes welling up again. "Castle…" Her fingers curled around his neck, though the pressure on him to bend to her again was barely noticeable. Even so, he took the hint, and dipped down: a little more definite, warm against her mouth, soft pressure. His hand glided up to cup her head, pulling her in; she opened to him, and for the first time he kissed her fully, exploring the soft recesses of her mouth; but always gentle, slow, and careful; tentative and cautious, half-expecting her to pull away and run.

She didn't pull away, but nor did he press: forcing himself to stay calm and not succumb to the tide of four years' suppressed desire and need; barely less than that time, his period of hidden love. Knowing that she loved him too… it was almost too much for his control.

Delicately, uncertainly, she responded: shatteringly unlike his headlong, headstrong Beckett. She explored in her turn, but it was as unconvincing as her current health. He drew back a little, and returned to cuddling her in, petting at her shoulder and playing with a long lock of hair, ensuring she didn't leave his embrace.

"Stay with me," he murmured. "I've got you now. Just stay here." _Stay with me always_.

"Even though I lied? Even though I don't want to remember? Even though I can't talk with you there? I want to forget _everything_ about that day. _Everything_. I want it never to have happened." She turned away, and he thought she was crying again, though there was no sound or movement.

"Everything?"

"Everything. I _died_. Would you want to remember the day you died?" she cried. "It's not a good memory. Why would you ever want to stay when I don't want to remember? You'll always know and it'll eat at you."

"Like it's eating at you? I'm not the one bringing it up every five minutes – you are. You're the one who can't get past it." He surged up and began to pace. "Every time we start to get somewhere you go right back to how I won't stay, how _I_ can't deal with you ignoring what I said. It's you who's not dealing with it. It's you who can't live with it because you know you were wrong not to tell me you remembered in the first place. You're the one who needs to deal with it." He stopped, as far from her as the room permitted. "The next time we have this discussion it's going to be in front of your shrink. You can tell me when the appointment is. I'm not staying to listen to this again when we just cannot deal with it properly ourselves and you _keep_ bringing it up."

He slammed out of the door. Just as he thought they were taking a step forward, she pushed them five steps back. She did it every time. Every. Single. Time. She'd admitted in plain words that she needed him, she'd fallen apart because he wasn't there and she thought she'd lost him – and as soon as he was there, as soon as they kissed, she pushed him away or picked a fight or did _something_ that screwed it all up.

Maybe they did need couples therapy after all. Because she'd pushed him away and he'd just gone and now he was going home and both of them were miserable.

Well, he could do one thing. He dialled Espo.

"Yeah?"

"Beckett cut you off like that so she didn't have another PTSD episode," Castle said bluntly. "She's had several and she doesn't know what triggers them."

"Yeah? So we should just leave her to it? That's not my definition of a team or a pal."

"It's not mine either, but another episode in the precinct won't help anyone."

There was a long, angry silence. "She needs to sort her shit out."

"I'm not disagreeing with that."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Gates said she couldn't come back till the shrink signed off."

Esposito humphed thoughtfully, and the anger dissipated. "I get it. I'll tell Ryan. We'll be there if you want us. Either of you."

"Thanks."

"Seeya, bro."

Castle swiped off and took himself home, where he treated himself to good coffee and good Scotch.

And then he called up Dr Burke's office number on his laptop and stared at it thoughtfully for some time, ignored it, regarded it, ignored it some more. Finally, he bit the bullet and dialled.

"I want to make an appointment with Dr Burke. Richard Castle."

After it was done, Castle stared into space, completely unsure whether he'd done the right thing by not waiting for Beckett, but sure that he needed some help whether Beckett took it up or not. It was fair to say that Dr Burke had needed some persuasion, but Castle had laid out the whole situation with total honesty, and after some consideration and a long and terrifying pause, Dr Burke had accepted him, with the caveat that Beckett had to be informed. Castle had no problem with that: in fact, he wanted it. Secrets had split them almost since the beginning. More secrets were emphatically not required.

Now all he could do was wait for the appointment, or for Beckett to call. He wasn't betting on the latter.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Beckett watched the door slam behind Castle with the tears running down her face. She hadn't wanted him to go. But every time she tried to open up about her fears he shut it down and got angry and wouldn't let her finish trying to explain. She couldn't explain properly, anyway. She wasn't even sure what she was trying to say.

She sniffed hard, and pulled up Dr Burke's number.

"I want to make an appointment with Dr Burke. Kate Beckett." She swallowed. "He's been treating me for PTSD." Tapping sounds.

"Please hold."

"Kate."

"I want to make an appointment," she said. "It's all gone wrong."

"What has gone wrong?" Dr Burke's deep tones were calm and soothing.

"I had an episode," she faltered.

"I see. I have a free appointment tomorrow. Come at eleven a.m."

"Okay." She sniffed.

"Is there something else?"

"Castle…" she blurted. "I need him to understand and he just _doesn't_ and I can't make him listen to me but I can't talk to you if he's there" –

"Kate, stop a moment. Why should your Mr Castle" – she sobbed, and choked it back – "be there?"

"Gates said we had to have joint counselling…"

Dr Burke blinked at his phone, utterly astonished. Captain Gates had said _what_? To be sure, it was clear that Kate and Mr Castle had significant interpersonal issues, but for her Captain to interfere was quite astounding. Kate spoke again.

"…or she won't let me back. I've got to go back but I don't know if I can or even if I want to" – another sob – "and I'm just so tired of trying and never getting better."

"Come tomorrow, and we will discuss all of this. Without Mr Castle." He adopted a consciously reassuring tone. "Whatever your Captain has said, we do not need to include him until it will be beneficial. It is far more important that we address your concerns first."

"But she said… and I was going to ask you and then tell him but he went away and I can't _do_ this."

"Why did he go?"

"Because he knows I lied because I don't want to remember and he said he loved me but I don't want to remember that because I _died_. I can't explain it because he never lets me _finish_."

"I see. Please attend tomorrow, and we shall unravel this together."

"Okay," Kate sniffed. Dr Burke had never heard her so defeated: not even during the sniper case, when she had fought her demons; not when he had first seen her.

"I shall see you then."

"Bye."

She put the phone down, stumbled to her bedroom, and wept her way to another night of troubled, nightmare-ridden sleep.

* * *

Dr Burke placidly worked his way through his patient list for the day, putting his worries about Kate Beckett aside. Late in the afternoon, his excellent assistant disturbed him as he wrote up his notes on the final patient.

"Dr Burke, I have a Richard Castle on the line, asking for an appointment. You'd said that if he were to call, you wanted to speak with him?"

"Yes. Please put him through."

There was a soft click.

"Mr Castle?"

"Yeah. Um… I know we didn't exactly hit it off when I called about Beckett but…um… can I make an appointment with you? We got told to do joint counselling but I think I need to talk to you anyway."

"It is not normally recommended that you have individual counselling with the same practitioner as the joint counselling."

"No? But… look, we're just not communicating properly – okay, we're not communicating at all. She keeps doing things that make me think we're getting closer and then she goes back to hiding, because she didn't tell me she heard me till now and she wants to forget everything about that day, and then she says that it'll eat at me and I'll leave. But the only person who keeps going on about it is her and then we fight and then it's all a mess again."

"I see."

Dr Burke listened to Mr Castle for some time. He was a man of infinite patience, which was helpful in dealing with Mr Castle's – Rick's – prolixity.

"I see," he finally said, after long consideration. "I have an appointment free on Wednesday morning, at ten."

"I'll be there. Thank you," Rick added sincerely.

"One final point. I shall be informing Kate that you have made an appointment and that I am treating you. I will not disclose anything about her treatment to you, and nor will I disclose anything about yours to her, without the relevant permission from either of you. If you do not agree to that, then I will not treat you."

"_Please_ tell her," Rick entreated. "Secrets are killing us. We don't need more of them."

"I shall. I will see you on Wednesday. Goodnight, Rick."

"Thanks again. Bye."

Dr Burke put down his phone, and considered the situation. Kate, he knew, had regressed substantially and was extremely distressed by the situation. Rick, as he had been requested to call him, was also distressed. Dr Burke was confident that he would be able to deal with their individual distress. Any form of joint counselling would have to wait until the individual issues had been disinterred and were being addressed.

He capped his fountain pen decisively. Tomorrow, perhaps Kate would finally begin to deal with her issues.

* * *

When she woke, Beckett had a headache, and a complexion which would have suited a six-month corpse. Seeing Dr Burke was the second-last thing she wanted to do. Calling Castle, which she also had to do, was the last thing. She dragged herself through a shower, which didn't improve anything, dressing, and two cups of coffee; and then she stared blankly at her phone, unable to construct anything sensible by way of an opening to conversation. In the end, since she needed to leave and still had no idea what to say, she sent a text. _Seeing Burke this morning. B._

Dr Burke's office was soothingly quiet, even in reception, and his timekeeping was, as it always had been, precise. Beckett was called in on the dot of eleven, to Burke's warm smile and comforting demeanour.

"Kate."

Her face crumpled, and was ruthlessly ironed straight again.

"I think you should tell me all about it," he said gently, and moved a box of Kleenex to within her reach. "Start with the point at which you had an episode."

Kate sniffed. To Dr Burke's experienced eye, she was pallid and ill-looking. None of her normal drive and fire was present.

"I was interrogating," she said. "And the suspect told me he had _trauma_" – her lips pinched tight – "and didn't remember anything about the blast, and I was angry, and I told him I remembered every second – and then I was right back in it." She swallowed. "And then when I…woke up Gates was there and she repeated it and I" – another choked gulp – "had another one. And then she suspended me indefinitely. She called it medical leave."

"And then?"

"I went home."

"Did you try to call anyone?"

"I called Castle, but he didn't answer or ring back. He didn't answer my text, either." She stopped. "So I went up to the cabin."

Dr Burke waited. Kate had, he believed, skated over the reasons for that decision. She said nothing.

"When did you make that decision?"

"Uh…"

He waited, again.

"Um… I don't know," she admitted.

"You do not know?" Dr Burke was surprised. Kate normally remembered everything with exactitude.

"When did you leave for the cabin?"

"Uh… I don't know that either," she eventually emitted.

"You do not know?" he asked again, trying not to display his astonishment – and considerable worry.

Kate shrank into herself, and shook her head.

"What then happened?" Dr Burke could return to the detail later.

"Castle arrived." She shrank further. "I don't know when. He made me shower but I had another episode and then he said he knew I'd lied and I remembered everything."

Her eyes were sheened. "And then?" Dr Burke asked sympathetically.

"I told him I did but that I wanted to forget everything about that day" – the sheen spilled over – "because all I remember is dying and I don't want to remember that or anything around it ever but I _can't forget_." She gulped back sobs. "And now I keep having episodes."

"And Mr Castle?"

"We just keep fighting about it."

"How do you fight?"

"Every time it comes up he's angry. I can't explain properly and we just end up in a mess and yelling." She stopped.

"And?"

"Or I have an episode," she added bleakly.

"I see." Dr Burke paused, and allowed Kate to wipe her face dry. "Before we go further, I should tell you that Mr Castle has made an appointment with me for tomorrow. He will only be allowed to keep that appointment if you are fully aware that he has made it. I shall not be discussing any matters which you raise with him, nor will I discuss his matters with you, unless and until you and he both consent or you are doing so in a joint session."

She shrugged. "It's fine." Dr Burke waited. "We're not managing to talk about anything, so maybe it'll help. I don't know." Another shrug.

"Let us return to your story. You had an episode at work, after which you could not contact Mr Castle. Then you went to your cabin, which I infer is some way from Manhattan" –

"Titusville."

_Where_? thought Dr Burke. He would investigate, later.

"I see. At some point Mr Castle arrived, and, in the course of an argument, you told him the truth of your feelings about your shooting."

Kate went white and still. Dr Burke waited until she opened her eyes again. "Please describe what just happened," he said softly.

"I had an episode." Her shoulders slumped. "Every time someone mentions it, I remember. So we can't have a conversation about it because I zone out and then when I try to go another way he gets angry or I do and it just – it's just never going to be fixed. Why bother?"

"Previously, it had been my impression that you wished to get better in order to pursue a relationship with Mr Castle, and to continue with your profession – in that order. Is that not still the case?"

Kate simply shrugged.

"You do not wish to?"

There was a long, strained silence.

"I don't know." She broke down. "I just don't know anything any more."

After some several minutes, Kate's shoulders stopped shaking.

"Let us continue." His sharp eyes surveyed her kindly. "Have you spoken to your Captain at any time since you left?"

Kate pulled herself together, somewhat. "Yes." She took a breath. "Twice."

"Mm?"

"When I was a bit better…"

"Better?"

"I had flu."

"In addition to your episodes?"

"Yes."

Dr Burke blinked. Certainly a genuine case of flu would account for much of Kate's current presentation: the loss of weight and the unusually tearful, emotional reactions. It was not unusual for flu to result in some period of physical weakness and mental turmoil.

"Kate, can you remember when the interrogation that began this sequence of events took place?"

She thought. "Almost the end of March. I remember because I'd been thinking about Castle's birthday – it's April Fool's Day." Dr Burke did not snicker. "I was going to take him out and really talk to him…" she dripped, and blew her nose.

"So you went to the cabin shortly afterwards, and then you caught the flu. Hm. Was Mr Castle there before or after you were ill?" Dr Burke already knew the answer, from Rick's abortive phone call whilst with Kate.

"I'm…I'm not sure. After I told him…"

"I see. So, when did you speak to Captain Gates?" Dr Burke, in allowing Kate to flesh out the timing of events, was also uncovering more of her emotions during that period.

"When I wasn't completely out of it. And yesterday."

"Tell me about the first discussion."

Kate did. Dr Burke's eyebrows rose, and stayed risen for some time.

"But it didn't last," she finished. "It… well, it wiped me out."

"That is not at all surprising," Dr Burke said gently. "The after-effects of a bad bout of flu can last for weeks even when one does not exert oneself. Now, tell me about yesterday's meeting."

Kate did that, too.

"I see. On both occasions, as soon as your captain questioned your team dynamic, you defended it vigorously."

She stared at him.

"Come, come. You said to me yesterday that you did not know if you could or if you wanted to go back, but on each occasion where your captain has given you an opportunity to repudiate your team, you have roundly rejected it and defended them instead." He waited.

"They're _my_ team – oh." She blinked, and thought. "You're saying that if I wanted to quit, I wouldn't bother defending them that hard."

"Indeed."

"But that makes it worse. What if I don't get better and can't go back?"

"I do not believe that will be the case, if you wish to return. It may take us some time, but I think we can return you to your rightful position." He smiled reassuringly. "Now, when you were staying in your cabin, how long did Mr Castle remain for?"

"He was there when I was ill. I don't remember when he arrived. He stayed all the time."

"All the time? Even after you had told him that you remembered?"

"Yeah. I think so… He was there all the time except…"

"Except?"

"We argued and he walked out but he came back."

"Mm?"

"He was already tired of having to look after me, and I lied to him and I don't see how he can get past that when all I do is take."

"And yet he came back, and stayed."

"He thinks love fixes everything," Kate said bitterly.

"Why does he think that you love him? You have never said that."

Kate regarded Dr Burke as if she were a trapped deer. "He asked me outright. I… I was going to say no. Lie. But I couldn't. I should've. He deserves better than me."

"And yet he stayed with you, and is demonstrating that he wishes to have a relationship with you. How do you feel about that?"

"I'm not fixed. He doesn't deserve a train wreck."

"If you were 'fixed', as you put it, would you feel differently?"

"I guess."

"Why?"

Kate didn't answer for a long minute. Then, finally, she spoke. "I already said. I was going to take him out for his birthday and talk to him about everything and see if we could…" She grabbed another Kleenex. "But now we can't _talk_," she wept.

"Which is where I may come in," Dr Burke suggested. It was perfectly clear that the entire interpersonal situation could eventually be fixed, with separate, then joint, conversations and clear-sighted guidance. He would be exceedingly interested in Mr Castle's views on the same matters. "It is, after all, my job to help you to talk." He smiled. "Is it not?"

Kate sniffed. "I guess."

"So, help me to do that job by telling me what you would want in ideal circumstances."

"Not to have PTSD," she spat. "That would be a good start."

"I agree, and you are already taking steps to deal with that issue. What else?"

"I just wanted Castle." She dissolved again.

Dr Burke noted that he would shortly require a fresh box of Kleenex. However, he was anything but discouraged. Kate was actually revealing her wishes and emotions, which was a considerable step forward from almost all of her previous appointments. Whilst flu was an extremely unpleasant disease (and why, he wondered, had she not taken advantage of the vaccination program, when she must have had all the standard vaccinations?), it had certainly forced her to confront her issues in a much more definite manner.

"Who then arrived, and then stayed. Why did he stay?"

To Dr Burke's complete lack of surprise, bearing in mind Mr Castle's original call to him about Kate, she cringed.

"He thought I needed to be looked after," she eventually said, evasively.

"Why should he think that?" Her gaze slithered around, skittering past Dr Burke's focused regard and intent stare. "Why, Kate?"

The evading silence stretched tightly between them. Dr Burke refused to break it.

"He thought I'd do something dumb," she forced out. Dr Burke still did not comment. "Eat my gun. But I didn't have a gun because Gates took it."

"So why did he stay, then? Obviously you were not going to 'eat your gun'." She shrugged. Dr Burke waited, again. "I said I wished I'd stayed dead," she finally dragged up.

"Ah. And he was worried by this?"

"Yeah."

"And he continued to stay?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because he thinks all this can be fixed just because he wants it fixed and he doesn't get that it's not that simple. He _says_ it doesn't matter that I lied to him and I don't ever want to remember any of that day but he's lying. How can't he be hurt that I don't want to remember that he told me he loved me?"

"Why not?"

"Because I was _dying_ and I don't want to remember _anything_. He just keeps saying that it's me and I won't even try but what's all this if it's not me trying but it hasn't worked." She breathed, painfully, whiter than she had been when the session began, fingers tremulous. "It's been almost a year, and it hasn't worked."

Dr Burke refrained from saying that Kate's therapy might not have been working because she had never admitted the truth about her wish to forget, her real feelings for Castle (which Dr Burke had swiftly realised were much deeper than she would say), her fears around her PTSD, or indeed the intensity of her PTSD.

"I believe that we can unpick these issues." He carefully did not say 'fix' them. That would have to come from Kate herself, and from joint sessions at a later time. "Unfortunately, we are out of time. Will you make another appointment for as soon as possible?"

"Yeah." She wobbled when she stood.

"My receptionist will call you a cab, if you would like?"

"I'm fine." Dr Burke regarded her straightly. "Okay," she conceded. Dr Burke was much relieved.

Beckett was actually very grateful for the cab, which she realised almost as soon as she got into it. Her knees didn't feel quite real, and she couldn't hold on to any coherent thought. She staggered into her apartment and fed on to her bed, barely kicking off her shoes. As she crashed out of consciousness, her last thought was that she was nowhere near fit.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Enter the fixer of all issues, Dr Burke. The idea of couples counselling came from an Inky Coffee prompt._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Castle, losing himself in writing, surfaced late morning to find no missed calls, but, much to his surprise, a text. Not that the text told him anything, except that at some indeterminate point of the morning Beckett would see her shrink. He returned to his keyboard, but failed to concentrate, made a grilled cheese sandwich, and failed to savour it, and then tried, fruitlessly, to write for some time longer.

Mid-afternoon, he gave up. Beckett must surely have seen her shrink by now. If nothing else, he justified to himself, he could tell her himself that he'd made an appointment with Burke. It was tissue-tenuous – and entirely unnecessary, since Burke had made it clear that he would himself tell Beckett – but it was all he needed. He didn't feel totally good about having stormed out the day before.

After some thought, he purchased two coffees from the nearest coffee bar to Beckett's apartment. Of course she had a machine, but…it was a statement, without having to open his mouth. He still didn't understand why she was so insistent that he'd grow to resent her. How could he? If he didn't now, he never would.

He rapped assertively on her door. He was about to rap again, much louder, when he both remembered the unsleeping baby nearby and heard movement.

"What happened to you?" he blurted, as she opened the door.

She stared at the two cups of coffee, and didn't answer his question, wavering sideways to let him in.

"You shouldn't be up."

"I had to answer the door."

Castle coloured. "Sit down now, before you fall over," he said, and recovered his composure.

She sat. "You brought coffee."

Castle put the coffee on the table, and sat next to her, regarding her pallid face and the dark circles ringing her eyes with worry. "I thought you were better? We came back because you were better."

"Yeah. Me too." She slumped. Castle slung an arm around her, and put her coffee under her nose. "Thanks." Several gulps went down her throat, and she brightened up. "That helped."

"D'you think you should go back to a doctor? You've been back four days and you're shattered again. You were asleep, weren't you?"

She merely nodded, and leaned on him. His fingers closed around her arm. There and then, he could be easy; forget the problems that beset them; forget the hard words and quarrels – and remember only the feeling of soft Beckett nestled into him, quiet and peaceful.

"You know I'm seeing Burke tomorrow," he said, since after all he'd had a purpose in coming here.

"Yes."

"Um…are you okay with it? Really okay, I mean? Because if not I'll cancel and" –

"It's good." She downed another slug of coffee, in a conversation-ending fashion, and put the go-cup down.

Castle snugged her in a little more closely, and didn't comment on her laxity or the way in which her head fell against him. Since she was there, he dropped a tiny kiss on her dark hair, unable to resist the temptation. There was a soft sigh, and a further relaxation. If only they never tried to talk, but simply stayed close-cuddled, Castle mused, it would be perfect.

"Missed this," she murmured into his neck. "My pillow smelled like you."

"I'll bring my cologne over and spritz your sheets," Castle said lightly, thinking _oh shit oh shit oh shit_. "That would do it."

"This'll do." She shifted slightly, and became closer. "Just this." Serenity surrounded them, until she spoke again. "I had an episode," she said miserably, "in the session." Castle petted gently, and didn't say anything. "They just keep happening. How am I ever going to get anywhere if I can't deal with the original problem?"

"Isn't that what you need to work through with the shrink? He's the one who should know." He dropped another delicate kiss on her hair, and wrapped her in. Her hand crept up to his shoulder.

"How can you do this?"

_Not this again._

"Even after Monday, here you are, holding me up."

_Wait, what?_

"I couldn't even think of what to say to you this morning. I can't even manage to explain what I mean and then we just go round in circles and it all goes wrong."

_Uh_?

She ran down, but stayed tucked in, unmoving and tense. Eventually, she spoke again, head still down. "I can't do talking. I hate it. Everyone always says you should talk but it never solves anything. All I do when I try is get it wrong."

Realisation suddenly hit Castle with the force of a runaway Amtrak engine. Beckett never talked with her words. But she'd spent months trying to show him through her actions that she was trying to get closer: ever since she'd come back – she'd come to the bookstore, but she hadn't _said_ anything much; she'd taken all sorts of little actions, but she hadn't _spoken_. He did words. She…didn't. And because she didn't and he did, he'd misunderstood her.

Of course, it didn't help that she'd been hiding any weakness and trying to forget the greatest weak point of all – dying. When you were a hero, dying was the ultimate weakness. And he'd made her a hero, in every book, and she'd believed – she'd _said it_ – that because that was how he'd written her, that was what he wanted; that was all he saw. She'd never acted any other way. Trying to open up her actions, but never ever showing a weak point, or an action that might point to one. He thought back to the sniper case: a perfect example, and wondered again how she'd been cut.

"So don't talk," he said. "Just stay right here, and let me hold you."

"_Don't_ talk? You've spent all this time wanting me to talk, and now you're happy I don't?"

"For now. We can talk later, when the shrink thinks it might work. We don't need to talk right now. Let's just stay like this. It's comfy. I like comfy, and you're nice and cuddly. Like having a teddy bear when I was small." He demonstrated, by turning her so she ended up in his lap with her head never quite leaving his shoulder. "There. All nice and cosy." One hand stroked her hair and back; the other curled itself around her and made sure she was kept close against his wide chest. She was still so appallingly thin and fragile – oh. "Did you get any lunch?"

A dark head shook. "I was so tired…" She sounded exhausted.

"Are you hungry now?"

"No." She yawned, and curled in. Her hand fell from his shoulder to his hip. It was only too obvious that she was going to fall asleep again, or the next best thing. "I didn't know how much I needed you to be there until you weren't," she whispered. Castle wasn't sure that she knew she'd vocalised that comment. A minute later he was sure that she didn't know it, as her body went limp against his and her head became heavy. He resettled her to avoid his arm going numb, and considered.

She should eat. She needed – _obviously, idiot_ – to sleep. She _shouldn't_ be as tired as she was, and she should go to the doctor, again. None of which was within his control, though he could suggest.

The one thing that was definitely within his control was that she needed him to be there, and there he was. Unfortunately, shortly he would have to be gone: he had to get home for some time with Alexis, who had already suffered three weeks of unannounced absence. He tapped Beckett's cheek, which achieved nothing, tugged a tendril of hair, which achieved even less, and, with a sigh, heaved himself up to carry her to her bedroom. That, awkwardly, done, he searched out paper and pen and left a note, weighted down by the light on her nightstand.

_Had to go home. Eat something. Text/call me. RC._

He thought about adding an _x_ to the end, and eventually rejected it. He wanted to, but she was so damn spooked by everything that it might just be one thing too much. That nervousness didn't stop him leaving a soft kiss on her forehead, though.

* * *

Beckett woke, much later, creases marked into her skin where her clothes had pressed as she slept; alone. When she looked around, she spotted the note, read it, and managed a sickly-weak smile. Eat something. If only she were (one) hungry and (two) had anything in her fridge. Somehow she didn't think that milk in her coffee counted as food. On the other hand, she certainly wouldn't be allowed back to the precinct if she couldn't pass the fitness requirements.

If, that was, she wanted to go back.

She thought over that part of the session, and the lacerating calls and meetings with Gates. She hadn't stopped to think before defending her team – and whatever Gates had said, it was _her_ team – oh. Whatever she might have thought or said or believed, when the chips were down it was _her_ team and she was keeping it.

In which case, she'd better get herself back on track. And that meant, whether she felt hungry or not, eating.

She ordered a pizza, and while waiting stepped on her bathroom scales. Very quickly, she stepped straight back off, horrified. She'd lost _how much_ weight? Surely not. That wasn't possible unless you starved yourself. She hadn't done that. She hadn't… oh.

She had. Not intentionally, but…she thought. She didn't remember whether she'd eaten at the cabin before Castle showed up. Then she'd thrown up the pizza, then she'd been so ill she didn't remember anything. And since then she'd eaten, but she'd hardly wanted anything much and even lifting spoon or fork to mouth had been too much effort to make for some days. She'd better eat some of the pizza. Tomorrow, she'd get some ice-cream. That would slide down easily, and it had calories.

When the pizza arrived, she forced herself to eat a little more than she really wanted, put the remaining half in the fridge, and then ran herself a hot, bubbly bath. She sent a brief text to Castle. She owed him a lot more than that, but she'd run out of energy. _Ate. KB._

She didn't add a glass of wine to her soothing bath, because even if she had wanted one, which, on reflection, she didn't, she would have worried that it would go straight to her head. Being drunk wasn't going to improve anything, and a hangover certainly wouldn't help her do her grocery shopping the next day, especially when that wasn't her favourite thing.

She slid into the bath, and let the heat seep into her tired limbs and body. It helped, a little, though she still had no idea how to overcome her PTSD or to talk properly to Castle without having another episode or another fight. Still, Dr Burke seemed to think everything could be fixed, which was reassuring. Probably. She drifted without thinking any further, until the water cooled, and then fell back into her bed and to more of the heavy, yet unrestful, sleep.

* * *

Castle had reached home in good time for dinner and catching up with his family, in which pursuit his happier mood wasn't dented. Even his mother was on good form: her latest venture was going well and she was very amusing on the foibles of the cast – though from her conversation she herself appeared to be a paragon of the profession: transcending Hepburn, Bacall, and Streep. He preserved a fond smile, and didn't contradict her.

After dinner, though, he repaired to his study and considered both Beckett and the looming worry of Dr Burke. Beckett had been snuggly, but appallingly tired. He wondered just how much better she really was, and then whether she would work out why his aroma had been all over her bed in the cabin – and then, whether he would survive it. Still, she'd been pretty clear about cuddling in, and whether she'd meant to say it or not (he was betting on _not_), she'd been crystal clear about how much she needed him.

His phone pinged, and, much to his astonishment, it was a text from Beckett, confirming that she'd eaten. She'd read his note, and actually taken the time to reassure him that she was acting sensibly. Wow.

He turned to the unpleasant thought of Dr Burke. He hadn't even met the man, and he was already halfway to being nervous about him. He knew exactly why. Dr Burke had shut him down hard for trying to manipulate Beckett into having treatment, and while the man had been right, it made Castle's stomach squirm. On the other hand, he'd listened.

Much later, with nothing resolved, he occupied a soothing hour in shooting on-line bad guys and then went to bed.

* * *

"Rick," Dr Burke said. He wasn't anything like Castle had expected, which only proved to Castle the depths of his own unconscious biases. He had expected a smallish, roundish, professorial type. What he saw was a tall, muscular African-American man with wise brown eyes. About the only point of similarity with his view was that Dr Burke was likely sixty-odd. "Take a seat."

"Thanks."

"Now, you told me a great deal on the phone, but I should like to clarify the order of events before we go further."

"Okay."

"Please start at the beginning of the situation, as you see it."

Castle gathered his thoughts. "Well, um… I guess it really started when Beckett was shot. Because she ran off for the whole summer and didn't get in touch with anyone. But when she came back she came to find me but she didn't tell me anything, really, just talked about a wall and how she couldn't do anything till it came down." He stopped. "Actually, that's not right."

"Mm?"

"Just before she was shot, I thought – I was _sure_ – she was telling me she was ready to jump in. But then she got shot and it all fell apart."

"I see."

"So anyway, she came back but I guess we didn't really fix anything, and then we just pretended like everything was the same. But mostly she was doing little things that seemed like she wanted to get closer." He paused. "And then we caught that sniper case – I guess you know about that – and that shook her up but she didn't talk about it. Even though she'd cut herself, she made out it was an accident and nothing to do with the shooting. I don't believe her."

"You do not believe it was an accident or you do not believe it was nothing to do with the shooting?"

"Um… I think it might have been an accident. But I'm dead sure it was because of the sniper and her shooting. Not that it matters because she wouldn't talk about it. Any of it."

Dr Burke found himself in total sympathy with Rick. Kate had not talked fully about that situation with him either.

"But then nothing else happened and she was fine and I really thought we were beginning to get closer even though we never talked about it. She was… there were little things. Actions." Rick looked squarely at Dr Burke. "I didn't realise till now that she doesn't talk, but she shows things through actions. Anyway, she was trying to show me… And then there was this case. The bombing – you must have seen it on the news?"

Dr Burke nodded. "And she hauled this guy in and was interrogating and I was watching – and then she said she remembered everything. She'd lied to me all this time. So I walked out."

"You had received a considerable shock," Dr Burke said soothingly. No hint of condemnation entered his words. "Taking time to think is not unreasonable."

Rick relaxed a little. He seemed, to Dr Burke, to have been worried that Dr Burke would rebuke him.

"I went home, and I booked myself a weekend away. I didn't see Beckett the next day, and then I went to Vegas for the weekend. I didn't want to talk to her. She'd left a couple of messages but neither of them said anything except 'Call me'." He looked unhappily at Dr Burke. "It didn't seem like enough to explain why she'd lied. I didn't find out she'd collapsed till I got back on Monday and Gates hauled me in to berate me."

"I see." Dr Burke remained gently soothing, his deep tones offering reassurance. Rick obviously felt guilty about his lack of contact, but Dr Burke considered that to be unjustified. Rick must have been gravely disappointed – and Dr Burke had on several occasions tried to suggest that Kate should tell him the truth, without success, despite it being perfectly clear that the result of her silence would be unfortunate.

"So Ryan and Espo told me what went down, and I texted her. She didn't answer. So I went over, but she wasn't there and her neighbour said she'd gone away. I called, but it went to voicemail. Next morning she still hadn't answered and, well, I was pretty angry. She'd just run off without a word just like she did last summer. So I got Ryan to track her car and then I went up after her."

"When was that?"

Rick counted back on his fingers. "That would be, um, Tuesday third."

"And the interrogation was, you said?"

"I didn't, but it was, ummmm, March 29th. Thursday."

"And on what day do you think Kate left?"

"Her neighbour said it was just a few hours earlier than when I was there, so Monday, sometime."

"I see." Dr Burke drew himself a timeline, and regarded it thoughtfully before showing it to Rick. "Does this look correct?"

Rick studied it. "Yeah. I got up to the cabin around eleven at night. It's a long way off the interstate."

"Mm. Do you have any idea what Kate might have been doing between Thursday, when the interrogation occurred and she collapsed, and the point at which you arrived at the cabin?"

"No."

"Tell me what you found when you arrived."

"The door wasn't locked."

Dr Burke blinked.

"There was nothing there. No phone, no Kindle, no food: just an empty coffee cup and a blanket on the couch. Beckett _always _has her phone, and at home she's always got a book or a Kindle next to her. She didn't come down – I expected to meet her gun first: I didn't know Gates had taken it away," he added, "so I went upstairs and she was asleep." Rick's face twisted. "She thought I was a dream."

"Mm?"

"She said that I didn't come. She'd needed me and I hadn't come, and then she said that she'd missed her chance." Rick reached for a Kleenex from the just-opened box, and blew his nose. "I made up another bed and went to sleep there."

"Mm," Dr Burke said again. "Kate's condition was obviously a shock to you. Was that when you decided to stay?"

"No."

"Oh? But you were worried about her."

"Yes. But I was only going to stay that night and then talk to her in the morning."

"To what end?"

Rick's face twisted again. "I wanted answers. Why she'd lied. Why she'd run off again. Just… I told myself that. Truthfully?"

"That would be most useful," Dr Burke said dryly.

"Because I couldn't not go to her. Whatever she'd done, I still loved her. I couldn't just let her go."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_ICCA (guest): Castle's call at the end of chapter 12 is the same call as you see from Dr Burke's point of view in chapter 13. We went back in time a few hours to see Beckett's reaction at the start of chapter 13._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Dr Burke smiled. "Naturally," he said. "So, to summarise, you arrived to an extremely concerning situation. Kate had been absent from work for five days, and had left Manhattan without a word to anyone. Her cabin was unlocked, and there was no evidence of her normal behaviour." He gazed at Rick. "Did she appear ill at that time?"

"I…I didn't think about it."

"What were you thinking?"

"That night?"

"Start there."

"I wasn't, really. I was too tired – it's a six hour drive, and it was nearly midnight, and I couldn't work out what was going on anyway. She'd just said she needed me, but she'd run off without a word and been lying to me."

"But you have said that she had left you two messages. That might not have been 'without a word'?"

Rick looked as if he'd been slapped. "What?"

"Either of those messages, had you returned them, might have resulted in her telling you that she was going to her cabin."

"No." His face had crumpled into pain.

"No?"

"If I'd answered either of them, she wouldn't have gone." He blew his nose again, and stared at the floor.

"If Kate had been more open in either message, you might have replied. She was not, and you did not. That is not an occasion for your guilt. You had sustained a severe shock on discovering her lie, and it is entirely reasonable that you wanted a period of separation. Had she said more, then you might have reconsidered. She did not. You are not responsible for Kate's mistakes – nor she for yours."

"But" –

"No, Rick. You do not need to feel guilty."

"I told myself that. It didn't help."

"But now I am telling you." Dr Burke smiled, and exuded confidence. "You need not feel guilty. Especially as, once you discovered Kate's absence, you went after her. Whatever your ostensible reasons for doing so, your true reason was to ensure her safety. You took the right course."

Rick eased further, and his face lightened. "I did?"

"You did." Dr Burke's reassuring smile reappeared. "How did Kate react to your arrival, when she awoke the next morning?"

Rick winced. "I had to wake her. She said I wasn't real, and then she said 'Took too long'. I…left." Dr Burke said nothing. All of this was new to him: Kate had been unable to provide any real information prior to being – as she had put it – _stuffed in a cold shower_. "I got halfway to the end of the drive, and realised she didn't mean me. She meant _she_ had taken too long. So I went back."

"And what happened then?"

"She said she was going to stay there and rot. And I said I wasn't going to let her and when she wouldn't talk to me I dumped her in the shower and switched it on."

"A touch drastic."

"She wasn't happy," Rick grinned. "But she woke up. Until… well, she didn't come down, and so I went up again – and she was having a flashback in the shower. It was awful. I didn't know…"

"How could you? You had never seen one before, had you?"

"No. She didn't let me see anything. She never let me see anything. If that was happening on the sniper case…"

Dr Burke did not, and could not, comment upon that. "What did you do?"

"Hauled her out the shower and held on to her," Rick said briefly. "And then she said she remembered every instant of what it felt like to die and that she wanted to forget everything, even me saying I loved her, because she couldn't bear to remember any of it. And then she said I'd given up on her and it couldn't be fixed and there was no point and then she said she wished she'd stayed dead. And I couldn't leave and let her die."

"I see. You need not tell me more of the chronological story, for now." Dr Burke steepled his fingers. "Tell me, instead, what you wish to achieve by coming to see me."

Rick squirmed uncomfortably, and failed to answer for a moment or two.

"I guess… I want an us. But we can't work unless we can communicate somehow, and right now we aren't. And I want Beckett not to have PTSD, and for us both to be back at the precinct solving crimes, and we can't do that till you've signed off that she's fit for duty and that we've done this couples counselling."

"I see." Dr Burke's fingers moved again. "Which is most important?"

"Us."

Dr Burke was relieved. Rick had had no hesitation in making that statement. "Then let us consider where you think your "us" is now, and where you want to be. Then we shall explore the barriers and how they may be broken down."

"All in this session?" Rick said sceptically.

"Of course not. But we may make a start."

"Okay."

"Tell me what you think the issue is in communicating."

"I do words. She doesn't."

"Expand on that, if you please."

"I need words. It's…well, words are everything to me. They're my life. But Beckett doesn't do talking, she just acts, so I don't see it. And she lied, of course. The one time she used words, it was to lie."

"Hmm. So you are saying that you need her to use words, but she expresses her feelings in actions?"

"Yeah. And most of the time her _actions_ are so subtle you'd blink and miss them."

"Have you ever tried actions?"

Rick coloured. "Er…yeah." Suddenly he relaxed. "I used to – I still bring her coffee, and a bear claw. Every morning, if I'm at the precinct."

"And Kate's response?"

"She smiles, like it's a gift."

"It is, is it not?"

"Yeah, but if I gave her anything valuable she'd hate it."

"So you perform an action which she appreciates?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"On what other occasions have you used actions to show your feelings – when you have not argued?"

Dr Burke felt strongly that there was another occasion, or occasions, which Rick was not disclosing. The bringing of coffee on a consistent basis was interesting, but should not produce embarrassment.

"Uh…" His ears were scarlet. "Um…"

"These sessions are entirely confidential."

"Well, er-um, we were on a case, and, well, um-er, we had to go rescue Ryan and Espo and, well, there was a guard outside. We had to get past him, and Beckett agreed to pretend to be my drunk girlfriend, and, er-um, she was going to shoot him but I stopped her and, um, kissed her instead."

Dr Burke's eyebrows elevated. "You did what?"

Rick squirmed. "I kissed her."

"And then what happened?"

More squirming. "Um…er…well, she kissed me back. Harder. And then she laid the guy out with a sweep kick to his head."

Dr Burke emitted a strangulated noise of extreme astonishment. "My goodness," he said. "How… amazing."

"That's what I said."

Dr Burke did not enquire into that subject.

"Clearly, Kate did not object to your action."

"If she had, she'd've shot me," Rick said sardonically. "But I think I get what you're saying. When I've used actions, it's been relatively successful. When I've tried to talk, it's been an abject failure."

Dr Burke ignored the pejorative description and began another line of inquiry. "Has Kate ever talked to you about any matter other than cases, however briefly?"

Rick leaned back in his chair. "She mentioned her parents – her mom's murder and her dad's drinking. In four sentences at most, and then never talked about it again. That was three years ago, just after I started following her. I thought she was trying to say something to me when she gave Montgomery's elegy, but then she was shot and that was the end of that. She wasn't exactly explicit." He paused, frowning. "Then she lied in the hospital and ran off, but when she came back she came to find me but she didn't say much then, just about her damn walls. And that was it till I went after her this time."

"What happened then?"

"She said more than she ever has. But almost all of it was about how she couldn't stand to remember dying and how I'd leave because she lied. She did say she needed me. But she couldn't even say outright that she loved me too: she just couldn't deny it. One lie too far," he added bitterly.

Dr Burke had not missed the change in Rick's tone as the session progressed. It was clear that he was less sanguine than he had thought, and that Kate's fears were not _un_founded. Exaggerated, almost certainly, but not entirely unfounded.

"I keep telling her she's wrong. I mean, if I haven't walked away now why would I do it later?"

"And yet," Dr Burke ventured, "you sound angry about her lie."

Rick blinked. "What?"

"Each time you mention it, your voice rises and your tone changes. Despite your wishes, it does not seem that you are as indifferent to the issue as you have stated."

"But" –

"Please, consider with an open mind that you may unwittingly harbour anger at Kate's behaviour. We have run out of time today, but I suggest you make a further appointment for as soon as possible."

"But… I thought we would have joint sessions?"

"Those will only be valuable when you each understand the issues which you have. At that point, it will be possible to gain insight from a joint session. I hope to bring you both to that point as quickly as possible."

"Oh," Rick said, flatly. "Um… okay. Thank you."

Dr Burke watched as Rick exited, and considered both of his protagonists. Rick would undoubtedly be simpler to bring to understanding, but there was work to be done there too. He was completely confident that he could assist them to resolve their issues. After all, it was plain for all to see that they were hopelessly in love. They simply needed a little help.

He smiled, and turned to the notes for his next patient.

* * *

Castle barely noticed his journey towards home, being too busy fulminating at Burke's frankly insulting opinion that he was angry at Beckett's lie. He wasn't. Of course he wasn't. He'd got over that just as soon as he'd heard her say that she'd needed him.

Hadn't he?

But he already knew that he was wrong.

Suddenly he wanted Beckett. Not to talk, but soft snuggly Beckett who could be cossetted and petted and who _needed_ him there. He redirected his journey to head for her apartment, and stopped off to get coffees and, since he was hungry, bear claws. Maybe seeing Beckett would soothe the squiggling discomfort in his stomach, and the uncomfortable knowledge that Dr Burke had hit on a sore point with, he finally admitted to himself, total accuracy.

It didn't occur to him that going to see Beckett, just after he'd realised that he really was angry with her, might not be the best idea he'd ever had.

Coffee in a go-tray in one hand, he rapped on Beckett's door with the other, and waited. As on the previous day, it took a while for her to answer, and she was still wrapped in a fleecy robe, un-made up.

"Hey?"

"I brought coffee and bear claws." He gazed hopefully at her. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." She stood back, yawning.

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

Castle put the coffee and pastries down, turned around, and gathered Beckett into his arms, only then sitting down.

"What are you doing?" she gleeped, far more surprised than indignant.

"Hugging you. I just finished with Burke and I need something to hug."

Beckett shifted fractionally and laid her head on his shoulder. "Okay," she assented, and yawned again.

"You're still tired?"

"Ye-eah." She cuddled down, which was soothing, but said no more, which wasn't. Castle had, he discovered, expected her to ask about the session. Wasn't she _interested_?

Oh. Ah. There was a tiny tension in her spine, a small shiver in her shoulders, a twist to her lips. She wasn't asking, but that didn't mean that she didn't want to know. He felt better already, and the more he kept her close, the better he felt.

"Did you get lunch yet?"

"No."

"Want some?"

"I guess," she said doubtfully. "There's pizza in the fridge."

Castle made a face. Second-hand pizza wasn't really what he'd had in mind. "How about dim sum?" he suggested instead. "There's a place not far from here."

"'Kay."

"Maybe you should get dressed?"

"Huh?"

"You can't go out in a robe." He grinned, wasted upon the top of her head. "Though you could show me what's under it."

"Nothing interesting." She yawned again. "Give me a few minutes." She detached herself, and wobbled worryingly towards her bedroom. Castle watched, and forcibly stopped himself following, or worse, helping. Shortly he heard the noise of the shower.

By the time Beckett had emerged, a good twenty minutes later, Castle was bored of playing on his phone and even hungrier than he had been. She'd achieved jeans and a sweater, but lacked any make-up, and the way in which she drooped back to the main room didn't indicate any burning desire to keep her eyes open, let alone go out to eat.

"Are you sure" –

"I'm fine. Let's go."

They made it to the restaurant. Barely. By the time they sat down, Beckett's descent was close to a collapse.

"I thought you said you were okay?"

"I thought I was," Beckett said dully. "You order."

Castle did. He was perfectly well aware of Beckett's preferences, but he ordered tea, not soda, for her, without objection. Ordering done, he put his hands over hers and took the chilled fingers into his grip. "Try to eat," he said. "Maybe the tea will warm you up."

"I guess. I should be better by now," she said unhappily. "I think I slept better upstate." Castle startled. Fortunately, Beckett wasn't looking at him, she was staring at his hands around hers. "Maybe you _should_ spritz my pillow."

"Any time. Or you could just come sleep at mine."

"You what now?" Beckett-ness sparked into life.

"You could come sleep at my loft. It smells of me. Obviously that's what you need to sleep."

Beckett stared at him. Then her brow furrowed. Then her gaze hardened into laser-like focus. "How _exactly _did my pillow at the cabin get to smell like you?"

_Oh, shit_. The arrival of their drinks didn't stop the interrogative atmosphere. Castle bit the metaphorical bullet, and recalled with relief that Beckett did not have any _actual_ bullets.

"Uh… I slept on it," he confessed.

"You _slept_ on it? When? How?"

The shocked tone stung him.

"I couldn't hear you, okay? I thought you were _dead_ because I couldn't hear anything and how did you expect me to sleep if every time I woke up I had to come along to make sure you were still alive? Of course I fucking slept next to you because it was that or not sleep at all and one of us totally useless was enough!"

Her colour, such as it was, drained. "Useless? I see," she said, picked up her purse and stumbled out, leaving Castle open-mouthed and stuck until he could attract a server, get the food to go, and pay. By that time, of course, Beckett was nowhere to be seen. He thought about going to her apartment, and then thought that he shouldn't. It dawned on him that his temper wasn't so much fragile as shattered, and another argument wasn't going to help. He went home, ate half of the dim sum, and gradually realised that seeing Beckett after a therapy session probably hadn't been the best idea.

* * *

Beckett staggered out of the restaurant, hailed a cab, and managed to control her face and tear ducts right up until she entered her apartment. At that point, she collapsed back into her bed and gave up the fight. _Useless_. The word ricocheted through her head, echoing from side to side. _Totally useless_. He'd always used to believe in her.

Not now.

She hadn't been the hero. Just tired, and ill, and ruined by PTSD. And if she wasn't the hero…she was totally useless. Be a hero, or be a zero. Well, so be it. If that was what he thought… well, fuck him. She dragged her clothes off, the quilt over her head, and fell asleep, drained by the effort of the short walk and the shattering knowledge that the only person who believed in her was – probably – her father.

When Beckett woke, there were no messages on her phone. She managed a shrug, and pretended to herself she didn't care, and rang her father.

"Hey, Dad."

"Katie! Where've you been?"

"I caught the flu," she admitted, "and I've really been hit hard by it." She didn't mention anything else. No point worrying her dad (or inviting his pity, or disappointment). "But I'm a bit better now and I thought…uh,"

"I think I should take you for some dinner" –

_You what now? Dinner? It was only lunchtime a minute ago_. She looked at the clock. _Oh shit_. It was after five.

"That sounds good. Where?" She wasn't really hungry, but…

"Let's get pizza."

"Okay. Usual Patsy's?"

"Yep. Six do?"

"Sure, Dad. See you there."

Beckett fell out of bed, not quite literally, staggered into the shower, and took longer than usual to achieve a steady line of eyeliner and not to smear mascara on her nose. She still beat her father to the pizza place, and was (apparently) peacefully sipping a soda when he arrived.

"Hi, Katie," he said – and then took a proper look at her. "You look _terrible_."

"Thanks, Dad. How to make a girl feel good."

"You look like you didn't eat for a month. C'mon. Let's get some food and put some skin on your bones."

"Thought it was meat?"

"We'll start with some skin. Meat can be tomorrow. You'll need some more skin to cover any meat." Jim regarded her piercingly. "Have you been holed up all on your own with the flu?" Beckett winced, and exerted control over her tear ducts. "Were you?" he pressed.

"No-o…" She sniffed, and blinked.

"Rick look after you?"

Beckett's tear ducts won. A slow tear slid down the side of her nose.

"He _didn't_?"

"Did," she gulped.

"Then I don't get it. What's wrong?"

She couldn't speak. Jim slid round the booth and put a paternal arm around her, just as he used to when she was small.

"What's wrong, Bug? Should I go see him with a shotgun? What's he done to upset you?" He put a handy napkin into her hand, and barely resisted telling her to _blow, honey_. She sniffed some more, and wiped at her eyes. Jim merely waited.

"I can't do my job and he can't deal with it."

Jim stared at his daughter's miserable head, speechless. He didn't believe that for a moment. "Huh?" was all he said.

"I was ill and got benched and I'm useless."

"That's not true," Jim said firmly. "If you had nasty flu then you're likely still a bit down from it, and you're catastrophizing."

"He said so," she whispered.

"What? Rick?"

She nodded.

"You've misunderstood. Or he's misspoken. He'd never say that."

"He did." She dissolved into full-on tears.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Jim summoned the server, changed the order to take it to go, encouraged Katie to stand up and steered her out of the restaurant and into a cab, which took them to her apartment. Once there, he directed Katie to the couch, and efficiently put the pizza in the oven to reheat. The shake he'd automatically ordered for her, despite the soda which she'd been drinking, went in front of her; his soda would be just fine from the can.

"Okay. What's going on here?"

Out of a considerable quantity of tears and snuffling, Jim extricated the story, which was exceedingly worrying. He hadn't known that Katie was still suffering PTSD; he hadn't known that she remembered what Rick had said; he hadn't known that she'd never told Rick she remembered (and _that_ was truly dumb); and he certainly hadn't known that she'd been benched and gone up to the cabin when she was ill (which was, if it were possible, even dumber).

The whole situation, Jim thought cynically, was just plain typical of his dumb daughter and her just-as-dumb boyfriend. From the little he'd heard over the last three years, if there was one single solitary way to screw things up, and a million ways to get things right – they'd go for the screw-up, every time. And they might not be dating, but if Rick wasn't her boyfriend Jim would eat every last one of his attorney's textbooks. Without salt or ketchup.

Katie was still sniffling, and, more importantly, not eating the pizza he'd put in front of her.

"Come on. You have to eat something."

"Don't wanna."

"Eat," Jim said firmly. "Whether you want to or not. You weren't this thin when you were modelling. I don't want to be taking you to the ER if you can't stand up."

Katie turned huge, woebegone eyes on him, and reluctantly – to Jim's private horror – took a slice, and then a bite. The slice wobbled and drooped as her hand shook. The bite wouldn't have overfilled the mouth of a mouse. She chewed mechanically, and swallowed.

By the time Jim left, Katie had eaten at least a slice and a half of pizza, and drunk most – but not all – of her strawberry shake. He'd almost contemplated tucking her up as if she were still his little girl, but he'd had a better idea.

While Katie had been slowly eating, he'd reconsidered his first impulse, which had been to go round to Rick's loft and reduce Rick to small scraps and shreds. He was quite certain that both Katie and Rick were being dumb, and even more convinced that both of them had contributed equally to the problem. He still wanted to go see Rick, but not to kill him. Making him feel uncomfortable…well, he wasn't above that.

Jim betook himself to Broome Street, and hoped fervently that Katie wouldn't find out about his actions until some time after she and Rick had fixed it. How two people who cared so much for each other could screw things up so badly, Jim really didn't know, he thought again. He hadn't called ahead. He didn't want Rick to have a chance to prepare himself.

"Jim?" Rick gasped. He looked utterly shocked to see him. "What's happened to Beckett? Is she okay?"

"No."

"Where is she? She's not badly hurt? Not…" He turned completely ashen, and sat down, very hard.

"Would you care?" Jim said coldly. "After all" – he didn't get any further. Rick was looming over him, enraged.

"Out. I don't care if you're Beckett's father, get out of here."

Jim found himself moving towards the door. "Now just hold fire a moment, son," he said. "You're the one who called Katie useless, and that didn't sound to me like you care what's wrong. Are you telling me that if someone had said that to your daughter you wouldn't be at their door?" Movement ceased, and Rick's vice-like grip dropped from Jim's upper arms.

"Another Beckett making assumptions?" he said bitterly. "I don't guess you want my side of the story, so why don't you just go home and leave me alone."

"Actually, I assumed she'd misunderstood. And how you just reacted when you thought she was hurt" – Jim, too, shied away from anything worse – "tells me that she did."

Rick flomped back down. "So you were testing me." It wasn't a question. Jim nodded. "You had no right."

"I had _every_ right," Jim snapped. "_My daughter_ couldn't make it through dinner because she thought _you_ told her she was useless and I watched her sobbing her eyes out all evening because of you. Damn right I'm testing you. You're lucky I didn't show up with a gun."

"Lucky? How long did you know she'd been lying to me? Ever since the summer?"

Jim very obviously consulted his watch. "About an hour."

Rick's teeth clacked shut. It took a full two minutes for them to reopen. "_You_ didn't know?"

"No. Same as I didn't know she had PTSD, didn't know she'd had flu, didn't know she'd been put on leave, didn't know she'd gone up to Titusville, and didn't know that you'd gone after her either. Oh – and I sure didn't know she was that dumb. Or that you were," he added meditatively.

"I guess you'd better sit down," Rick said, marginally less hostile. "Coffee? Soda?"

"Times like this, I wish I could have a whiskey," Jim sighed, "but you know that's not an option for me. I'll be fine if you have one, though."

"Tried that, earlier. It didn't help."

"Coffee, please," Jim requested. "Cream, no sugar."

"Sure."

Rick trudged to his kitchen, and shortly trudged back with two large mugs of coffee, which clunked heavily on to the table.

"So why don't you tell me your side," Jim said, a tinge of sympathy in his voice. He deliberately moved his gaze away from Rick's still-pale face: broken by a harsh red line across his cheekbones.

"Beckett lied to me all year, and I found out by accident. She was never going to tell me the truth. So I left."

Jim listened carefully as Rick told the story, and inwardly despaired at both of them. Conversely, he was extremely impressed with Captain Gates, who seemed to have the measure of the whole situation. He barely repressed a snicker at her demand that Rick and Katie attend couples counselling.

"So I went round today after I saw the shrink," Rick was saying. Jim attended closely to his words. Katie hadn't been able to explain that part at all. "I wanted" – Jim had the odd impression that the word should have been _needed_ – "to see Beckett. And she was barely awake – she _said_ I hadn't woken her but I'm not sure I believe that." Jim didn't comment. Katie had told him that she'd been semi-dozing, under his parental patience. "She didn't eat her bear claw. She was tired – she said so. So I suggested lunch and she was – she said she was, anyway – fine with that but by the time we got to the restaurant she was exhausted. She said she'd slept better at your cabin." Rick stopped. The thin red line across his cheeks broadened.

"And why might that have been?" Jim asked, with a delicate edge of menace.

Rick gave the menace back with interest. "Beckett isn't eighteen. She's thirty-two. So you can drop that attitude or you can leave."

Jim made a vaguely concessionary gesture.

"Anyway," Rick said. "Beckett was really ill. And I couldn't hear her breathe so I slept _beside_" – that was heavily stressed – "her so that I didn't stay up all night wondering if _this_ time she was dead." He shrugged. "I didn't tell her."

Jim said nothing, rather loudly.

"So at lunchtime today she asked me how the pillow had smelled like me," he rushed out. Jim studiedly said nothing, again. "I told her." Rick's tone hardened. "She didn't appreciate it."

"Katie _said_ so?"

Rick stopped. Thoughts flickered through his expression, not one of which he articulated. Jim wasn't inclined to assist. Katie's utter misery had left him pretty annoyed.

"She made it pretty damn clear," he said angrily.

"But she didn't say so, did she?" Jim had adopted the cool, incisive tones that he would use at work to elicit unpleasant information from difficult clients. Rick glared, but reluctantly shook his head, lips pinched thinly together. "She didn't say she objected. And given the way both of you idiots misunderstand each other at every single opportunity, I expect that she didn't. I _do_ expect that she was shocked. So I guess you lost your cool?"

Rick gaped.

Jim continued. "You told her you'd had to sleep next to her and somewhere in there you said it was because she was useless. And if I know my daughter, she walked out."

"I _said_ that I slept next to her because otherwise I wouldn't sleep at all and one of us useless was enough!" Rick yelled. "And _she_ made that into a comment on how she always is when I meant when she was ill. She could barely stand up and couldn't have made a coffee. You tell me how it would have helped if I'd been just as incapable? Someone had to be able to look after her!"

"So you didn't choose your words carefully and Katie misunderstood," Jim said judicially. "So why didn't you go after her and tell her so?"

"One, because she wouldn't have opened the door. Two, because she wouldn't have listened. And three, because I was still _absolutely fucking furious_ with her for lying to me all this time, okay?" Rick snapped his mouth closed.

Jim blinked, slowly, and then sighed. "And you haven't contacted Katie since."

"She misunderstood. I'm tired of making the first move. She got it wrong, she walked out, she _lied_ which started all this off. She can damn well show me _she_ wants to mend matters for a change. And you can go tell her that rather than trying to guilt trip me." There was a pause. "I think you're done here," he said.

"I think that might be you, Rick."

"Yeah? Well, maybe that might just be the right thing. I'm tired of doing all the running and all the explaining and all the making up."

Jim blinked again, shocked but trying not to show it. "I thought you…" he began, and stopped.

"So did I. But not if it's only ever one way. I'm not the one who began this. I'm not the only one at fault. But I'm the only one who's ever tried to fix it. And I'm not going to keep fixing it if she won't even try." He paused, and stood. "I have things to do. I'm sure you do too. Good night."

Perforce, Jim had to take his leave, in no wise reassured by anything he'd heard. One thing was perfectly clear, however. Katie had some making up to do. If she'd just do something, Rick would respond. It was just as he'd thought. Two stupid peas in one dumb pod. They didn't so much need couples counselling as two bricks applied firmly to their two concrete heads to let the light in. Both of them totally in love, and both of them totally stubborn. Jim emitted an infuriated _pah!_, to the startlement of the people around him, and, reluctantly, returned to Katie's apartment. The whole situation would definitely _not_ be improved by her sleeping on it.

"Dad?" Katie yawned. It looked to Jim as if he'd woken her, which was also not reassuring. Taken with the only-too-evident tracks of tears and the reddened eyes, he concluded that she'd cried herself to sleep after he'd gone. "What are you doing here?"

"I was thinking." He had been. He'd done a lot of thinking on the journey back.

"Oh."

"You told me a lot about how you felt, but you didn't say anything about trying to tell your Rick about it. I think he didn't mean what you thought. From what you told me, you could barely get out of bed when you were up at the cabin, and I think he meant that you couldn't look after yourself then, so he had to be fit to look after both of you."

"Huh?"

"What did he actually _say_?" Katie could only stare at him. "Look, Bug, you told me he said you were useless. But you didn't give any context, and I just can't believe that he would say that and mean that you're always useless – which you're not, before you start thinking I'm saying it. So what did he say?"

She almost fell on to the couch.

"Are you okay?" Jim asked desperately.

"Tired." She drooped. "I can't even stand up for too long without wobbling."

"You had really bad flu, didn't you?" She nodded. "And Rick came dashing up after you and looked after you?" Another nod, and a sniff. "And now you won't try to work out what he means or even ask him. That's not exactly playing fair, Katie. So what did the man actually say?"

She sniffed again, and obviously tried to think. "Uh… he said he slept next to me and I was really surprised…and he got mad" – yet another sniff – "and he said _it was that or not sleep at all and one of us totally useless was enough_." A tear escaped. "See?"

"What I _see_," Jim said crisply, "is that you've totally misunderstood him. Don't be dumb, Katie. You're not usually this stupid so I'll put it down to your flu, but you're in the wrong here." She stared, damp-eyed, at him. "It's clear that he meant right then. Not now. It's just what I said a minute or two ago." Jim thought that it was just as well he'd heard Rick's side of the story first, though. "He meant then. You misunderstood" – a _lot_ of repetition wouldn't hurt here, he thought – "and you need to fix it."

"You think?" she sniffled.

"Yep. When have I ever told you that when I don't mean it?"

She managed a soggy shrug.

"So it's up to you. But if it were me, I wouldn't go to sleep on a quarrel if I could fix it."

"You and Mom always said that."

"Because it worked. When we put our pride aside and did it," he added, with a self-deprecating smile.

Katie sniffled again, and dabbed at her face with a Kleenex. "Really?" She sounded as if she needed reassurance.

"Yes, really." He patted her shoulder. "I've got to get home. It's too late for me to be out. Do the right thing, Bug. You always have before."

Jim left, and as soon as the door was shut crossed all his fingers.

* * *

Castle, still thoroughly irritated, took an angry look at his chirping phone and, seeing it was Beckett – ignored it. If she was serious about fixing anything, she would ring back or, at the very least, leave a message. He didn't expect either.

Astonishingly, his phone cheeped with a message tone. It had cost him all his willpower to ignore the initial call: he certainly couldn't ignore the message. Truthfully, he didn't even try.

She'd been crying. Again. He could hear it through each word, though she'd obviously tried to hide it.

_Castle. It's me. Beckett. _A long pause._ I misunderstood. I'm_ – a choked noise – _sorry. Guess you don't want to talk to me._ Another pause._ Bye._

His flabber hadn't stopped gasting before he found himself hailing a cab and giving the driver Beckett's address. He didn't work out what he was doing until he'd paid and walked into her building; and by that time it was too late to turn around and go home again. He hadn't meant to go running to her. But just like always, she'd thrown him a bone and he'd snatched it from the air.

He stopped before he reached the elevator. If he had to see Dr Burke, then that was likely something that they should talk about: how easily he would go running after her with the slightest encouragement. He made a note on his phone, and then did exactly what he couldn't stop himself doing: walked out of the elevator and rapped on Beckett's door.

He didn't expect a swift response, but he got it, and therefore was entirely unprepared when the door swung open with an utterly miserable Beckett behind it. He'd swept her up before he'd thought: hard-wired to comfort her. She slumped against him as he sat down, burying her head in his shoulder and completely silent. He thought that she _couldn't_ speak, rather than wouldn't. He petted softly, stroking down her back; she forced herself closer to him and wrapped her arms around his chest and neck to hold herself there.

"There, there," he murmured. "I'm here."

"I'm so tired," she whispered. "I'm so tired and I can't sleep well."

Castle blinked. "You meant it?" he asked slowly, but it wasn't a real question. "You meant that you'd slept better upstate." There was a wobble of her head against his neck. It was probably agreement. He petted some more, knowing that it was a bad idea for a whole host of reasons. They were supposed to be fixing things. They were supposed to be doing separate therapy, till Dr Burke thought they could be allowed to be together. They were _not_ supposed to be falling straight into old habits and poor patterns: miscommunications fixed – or not fixed – by physical contact.

Although she had apologised. Made a move. It was what he'd said to Jim he'd wanted. He hoped he didn't _actually_ want her to grovel. That felt uncomfortably spiteful.

He just didn't know if she'd done enough, or if he'd jumped for a small, unsatisfying bone.

"I thought you meant I was useless now. I can't go back to work, I can't seem to get better, and I'm worse than I was after I got shot. And now I've found that I can't even sleep unless my pillow smells like you and I can't just keep expecting you to solve all my problems when I can't."

Castle gaped over the top of her bent head.

"Especially when we can't even have a proper conversation. We don't understand each other and then we fight and I don't know about you but then I'm unhappy and I hate it." Her head was heavy on his shoulder, bearing the weight of her misery. The words spurted out, then stopped as if a faucet had been turned off.

He didn't say anything, but his fingers moved soothingly over her back.

"I want you here." She gulped. "I need you here."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_At the moment the ability to answer reviews is, um, tricky - FF has some issues (again). Replies, if allowed, will arrive when FF fixes its problems._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"I want to be here. But" – it was his turn to gulp – "we can't go on like this. We have to work out how to talk to each other and not get mad. Both of us." Another harsh swallow raked his throat. "I think we have to stick with Dr Burke."

Her head moved against his shoulder, though it wasn't clear if it was agreement or negation. Nothing more was said, which, he realised after a few minutes, was because she was either asleep, or so close it wasn't worth arguing about. He settled her comfortably, propped up so that most of her minimal mass was supported by the back of the couch, kept her cradled against him, and himself closed his eyes with his nose buried in her hair. Only a few minutes, and then he'd put her in bed.

Something was weighing her down. She wiggled slightly, became more comfortable, and plunged back into sleep, warm and safe. For the first time since she'd come back to Manhattan, her dreams weren't nightmares.

* * *

Castle startled awake at the sound of a siren outside the window. On glancing at his watch, he found it was the small hours of the morning, and he was wrapped uncomfortably around a bundle of sleeping Beckett, on her couch. His back hurt, and his arm had gone to sleep. He should have left hours ago; he should leave now.

He didn't.

He struggled up, lifted her, carried her limp sprawl to her bedroom and tucked her into bed, made himself comfortable, stripped to boxers and slid in beside her; spooning her close just as he had wanted to upstate. He was asleep again mere seconds later.

When he woke, Beckett was disposed over him, leg around his, arm around him, head on his chest, and still deeply asleep. At last, when he examined her face, the dark rings at her eyes had lightened. It didn't seem like she'd wake any time soon, so he borrowed her shower, a pink razor, and then some toothpaste and a spare brush he found at the back of her bathroom cabinet. He didn't scruple to look through it, and was exceedingly interested to find a bottle of Nyquil, with a reasonable quantity missing. She hadn't been joking about not sleeping well. The question was, though, for how long? The slight dribbles down the label indicated that it might have been longer than he'd known.

Cleaned up and feeling better, Castle improved the morning by making himself a cup of coffee and then taking it back to bed with him. Beckett was still sound asleep, but when he wriggled under the covers she made a contented small noise and flopped an arm over him, snuggling in. The snuggle was a marked improvement on the cabin, where she'd been too ill to snuggle at all, and anyway he'd made damn sure that he'd sneaked away before she was even half conscious.

Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe it hadn't.

Being here, now, wasn't a mistake. Because Beckett had just murmured _Castle_ in her sleep, and now her lashes were fluttering, and opening, and –

"You're still here," she whispered, and her face, unguarded while she was still only half-awake, broke into a brilliant smile. "You stayed." She hugged him hard. Automatically, his arms locked around her.

Oh shit, that was the biggest mistake he could have made. Because Beckett was only wearing flimsy pyjama shorts and a soft sleep tee, and _he_ was only wearing boxers, and it was very, _very_ obvious what his body wanted. His brain was frantically working overtime to keep his primitive urges in check, and even though Beckett wasn't doing anything arousing (except for being _right there_), that was taking all his self-control. With huge effort, he managed to – um – deflate. Mostly.

"You stayed," she murmured again. "I needed you and you were here."

"You called. I couldn't _not_ come."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You" –

He cut her off before she could go further. "Don't talk. Talking only spoils things, right now. Just be close and leave the talking for Dr Burke."

Her eyes widened. "Dr Burke? I have an appointment. What time is it?" She looked frantically around, already tightly stressed. "Eight? Eight," she said more slowly. "It's not till ten."

"That's okay. He's not far from here." She settled down against him, but her fingers were trembling against his skin. He petted and soothed, but the trembling didn't stop.

"I'd better get ready," she said unhappily.

"I'll make coffee."

"Thanks."

Coffee was taken without any conversation and with Beckett nestled in, which should have been happily reassuring but, since Castle could feel the tension and tremors in her body, wasn't. She didn't speak, and nor did he. It had the huge advantage that they didn't fight: instead staying close together, but under the apparent comfort Castle was only too aware that they were simply skirting the issue.

"I'd better go," she emitted. Castle waited. There had been an unfinished quality to the sentence. She swallowed. "Could I…come over, after?" She sounded as if she expected him to say _no_.

"Sure." He was studiedly casual, warm enough to make it clear she was welcome (oh, _so_ welcome), but light enough not to spook her. She might have kissed him, but matters were a long way from stable, let alone mended.

He stood up and shrugged into his light jacket. Beckett struggled to her feet, collecting a warm coat and putting it over her jumper, slipping her feet into flat loafers – escorting him to the door and collecting her purse on the way.

Then she stretched up and planted a kiss on his lips before sinking back down. He was still reeling from it when he handed her into the cab and made his own way home; still touching his lips, like a teen who couldn't believe they'd been kissed by the prom queen, when he opened his door. He'd said it to Dr Burke: _she does actions, so subtle you'd blink and miss them_. Kissing him wasn't subtle, even when it was fleeting.

* * *

Beckett made her way to Dr Burke's office, buoyed up on a full night's sleep for the first time in months. It almost compensated for the heaviness in her legs, the chill she couldn't shake off, and the tremor in her hands. She reached the comfortable sofa in his waiting room with relief, and sank into it.

"Come in, Kate."

"Hey."

Dr Burke turned his cool, intelligent gaze on her, and was only slightly reassured that she looked no worse than she had two days ago.

"Last time, you said that you could not talk to Rick, and that every time you tried he became angry and you could not explain properly."

She nodded.

"What are you saying to him? Try to remember the exact words which you are using." He smiled. "Rick is a man of words, and so you will need to find words which he cannot misunderstand. However, we need to begin by finding out the words which have upset him."

Kate thought for a moment or two. "He said 'Stay with me,' and I said 'Even though I lied? Even though I don't want to remember?' He didn't say anything. And then I said 'Why would you ever want to stay when I don't want to remember? You'll always know and it'll eat at you.' And then he got angry and said it was me it was eating at."

"Mm. Did you say anything else?"

"I don't remember the exact words. Probably that I want to forget everything about that day. I wish it had never happened."

"I see. Kate, would you tell me what you are trying to say to Rick?"

Her fingers twisted together. "I…I don't know. I want him to understand. He always understands but this time he doesn't."

"You have said, several times, _even though_. Consider those words."Dr Burke waited. Kate remained blank-faced.

"I don't get what you mean," she admitted, already sounding defeated.

"Let us take an example. Imagine that your Captain said 'I shall allow you to take an advanced tactical course _even though_ you have not enough experience to pass it.'"

Kate stared at him. Dr Burke met her gaze without a flicker. The silence stretched uncomfortably taut. "I'd think… she'd expect me to fail. That she didn't think I could ever succeed but had to let me try to prove it." All colour drained from Kate's face. "No… that wasn't what I meant. I meant that he had to forgive something so big…" She reached for the Kleenex. "I _lied_ to him and then I told him I wanted to forget and how is he ever going to get past it?"

"That is not your decision," Dr Burke said sternly. "That is up to Rick." Kate stopped in her tracks. "What else have you just said that you told him?" he added, more gently.

She simply stared, uncomprehending.

"I shall tell you what you said. 'It'll eat at you'."

"He keeps saying it won't but it _will_ and then he'll hate me. I can't watch it happen."

"May I suggest that the first person it is 'eating at' is you, Kate. Are you saying that you hate yourself?"

"_Yes!_" she cried, and fell apart. "I hate that I'd rather forget him saying he loved me than remember anything about that day. I hate me for lying but I couldn't deal with any of it and I _still can't_. I wish I'd just died. I might as well have. Everything I love gets taken away from me." She hid her face in another Kleenex and hunched over, retreating into a small dark world where Dr Burke would have to follow her. He was, however, almost sanguine. If Kate was genuinely suicidal, she would most likely not be present in his treatment room; and for the first time, he believed that she had told him the unexpurgated truth. It would form a foundation.

Not, though, it would appear, today. Kate was in no state to hear, listen to, or understand anything further; and all of those would be required in order for her to begin to heal. Dr Burke thought of the months that had already been wasted, and wished that this had happened, if it had had to happen, considerably earlier in the course of treatment.

"Not everything has been taken from you," he felt able to say. "Rick is still here."

She winced. "He won't be. It's too much for him to forgive."

"That, again, is not your decision to make. It is his. From your own account, he has stayed with you despite knowing the truth: that you lied to him."

"Because I'm broken. He fixes broken things. When I'm better, he'll go."

Dr Burke considered his next words with extreme care and then adopted an incisive tone. "Would you prefer to stay broken so that he will stay, or recover and take the risk of him leaving?"

She gaped, utterly dumbfounded, and had no answer.

"Do not answer now. I would like you to think very carefully on this question, so that we can discuss it at our next session."

"No. I can't stay broken," she wept. "I can't live like this." She blotted her eyes. "But I can't – I don't want to do it without him."

"You are telling me that you want to heal, and have Rick." She nodded damply, and wiped her eyes again. Dr Burke hid a sigh of relief. "Let us try to heal you, then. Now, we are finished for today. Please make another appointment at the first available time."

She merely nodded once more, and left, trailing misery.

* * *

Beckett only remembered that she had asked Castle if she could go over – with the implication that she would do so – as she trudged into her own apartment. She didn't want to go anywhere except into a small dark cave with chocolate and alcohol, alone.

Alone with the nightmares and flashbacks.

She turned around, and went back out, dragging her feet. All the way to Castle's loft, Dr Burke's final question rang in her ears: _would you prefer to stay broken so that he will stay, or recover and take the risk of him leaving?_ She didn't want to be broken. But she couldn't live without Castle.

Suddenly, bitterly, she remembered their fight just before the funeral. _I know you crawled inside your mother's murder and didn't come out. I know you hide there, same way you hide in these nowhere relationships with men you don't love. You could be happy, Kate. You deserve to be happy. But you're afraid._

She was afraid now. Afraid of going forward and afraid to go back: stuck in no-man's-land of heartbreak, insecurity and PTSD.

Castle had seen her as a hero, but she was only an ordinary woman, doing her best – and failing.

"Lady, shift!"

She'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The harsh words jerked her out of her fog, and she stepped aside, to no thanks. She looked at the street sign and found she was almost at the subway; descended into the bowels of the system, and, exhausted, emerged at Spring Street. She should have taken a cab, she thought – or never come at all. The wall provided some support: the bright sun mocking her weakness.

She shuffled the short distance to the loft, taking far longer than normal, and took the elevator; missing the doorman's worried glance and his swift call.

"Mr Castle? Detective Beckett's on her way up." The doorman hitched. "She doesn't look good."

"Okay, thanks."

He put the coffee machine on, and stood down his irritation that she'd clearly not hurried to visit, despite asking to come when her session was over. It had been over some time ago, and he'd thought she'd bailed on him, and then that she'd done what she always did: thrown him a scrap and he'd gone running – but the call from the normally unobservant doorman told him more than Beckett would like him to know. When she tapped on the door he was prepared.

Or not.

She was in his arms instantly: he nudged the door shut with a toe and kept her gathered in as he walked them to the couch, coffee ignored.

"You should have caught a cab," he murmured, stroking her shoulder. "You're still not well." She curled in, and he felt the chill of her hands where he'd caught them. "Lemme warm you up. Don't talk, just stay here for a minute."

She laid her head on his shoulder, breathing shallowly. As her breaths evened out, he continued to hold her gently beside him, until she straightened a fraction and gazed at him through huge, dark, liquid eyes.

"No talking," he said again. "It's so much better if we don't talk right now. Let's just snuggle in and be easy."

"Okay." She seemed to lighten at his words, and did indeed snuggle in. A little later Castle made coffee, and Beckett returned to snuggling in.

"Warmer?" he asked.

"Yeah." Silence fell again. "I wish…"

"Mm?"

"It doesn't matter."

With some considerable difficulty, Castle bit his tongue on _it does matter. Tell me!_ "Okay," he said amiably. "More coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Lunch?"

"No, thanks." He flicked a glance at her. "I'm not hungry," she said defensively. "I know I should eat something, but I can't. Or I could add throwing it up to everything else." Her tone was edged.

Castle shrugged. "Okay." He started counting down in his head. _Five…four…three_

"I'd better go home."

_Zero._

"You can stay if you like." She glanced uncertainly at him. "I have nicer coffee than you," he smirked. She made a face at him. "And I have other advantages." The deadly Beckett eyebrow lifted in a way he hadn't seen for weeks. "Like this." The arm around her shoulders tightened, he leaned down, and dusted a kiss across her lips. "And I help you sleep," he added helpfully over her indignant gleeping, and tucked her back in again. "So you should simply stay here and have a nap." He waggled his own eyebrows. "You can even use my bed." His smirk widened wolfishly. "Fair's fair. I had a nap in your bed."

Beckett's eyes flashed in a familiarly irate fashion: irritation beating exhaustion. "You snuck into my bed and snuck out before I noticed. That doesn't count."

"And last night?" Castle said smugly. "I didn't sneak at all."

"You didn't sneak out. You snuck in."

Castle noted with relief that familiar flirting and annoyance had stopped Beckett thinking about leaving.

"Sure I did. You fell asleep all over me and clung on, so in order to save my spine from permanent damage and a Richard III hunch – and because you wouldn't let go – I had to stay in your bed. It's very comfy, you know, but mine's nicer. You should get higher thread count sheets."

"What?" Bogglement spread over her face.

"Higher thread count sheets. They're smoother. Like me. I'm very smooth." She spluttered. "Oh, I am." She was still spluttering when he kissed the tip of her nose. "Like that." She kept on spluttering, unable to find words. "And now you've cheered up. It's no fun when you're miserable. It makes my couch soggy and uses up all my Kleenex."

"You can afford a box of Kleenex," she snipped. "You're rich."

"Sure. But money can't buy everything." He smiled at her, suddenly not smug at all, emotion overtaking brain because after all she'd _come _here, exhausted as she was. "It wouldn't buy me you."

She gasped.

"You've never cared about any of that. You…you only want me. Nothing else." She stared at him, dumbstruck. "Sure, we've got some issues right now. But you're here. You came. You're here with me and nothing else matters." He bent forward and kissed her firmly. "I'm not going to ask about your sessions. We'll get there when we're ready. Let's just pretend that they're not happening and you're just tired or miserable because of the flu and I'll look after you till you're better."

He hadn't meant to say a single solitary word of that. Beckett was still staring at him, eyes wide in her gaunt face. She emitted a wordless squeak, but she wasn't running.

Yet.

At all.

Her mouth hit his and stuck there, frantically kissing him with all the limited strength that she had, hands on his neck: his arms wrapped around her and hauled her in, hand sliding up into her hair and turning the tables: taking, possessing; powerful and passionate.

Everything that was wrong dissolved in the one thing that was right.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Beckett stopped thinking as soon as Castle responded, simply letting herself be swept away into the riptide of passion and Castle's instinctive, unthinking reaction. He surrounded her, subsumed her, and she drowned without a struggle: her own need and desire flowing into his.

When he lifted off she canted into him, leaning against him: held safe and warm and loved. Held together. She shivered, and he cossetted her closer.

"I'm broken," she whispered.

"I've got a bottle of Gorilla Glue." She snickered weakly, and then shivered again. "Don't think about it. Just stay here." He smirked at her. "Or in my bed." He shifted around her. "It's definitely past my lunchtime. D'you still not want anything? I'm going to make some grilled cheese and tomato soup."

Beckett considered. Her stomach wasn't twisting as it had been earlier, but she wasn't totally confident of its stability. On the other hand, she was shaky, and she really needed to eat something. She had to start getting better.

"Could I get some soup, please?"

"Okay. Soup, and I'll cut enough bread that you can have some if you want."

She heaved herself from the couch to follow Castle to the kitchen. "Can I help?"

He jumped. "Uh?"

"Can I help?"

He regarded her dubiously, and then caught himself. "Yeah, but if you drop my plates I'll be upset. Start with the butter and the cutlery." He handed them to her, and she set two places at the counter and put the butter between them. Castle handed her two plates, which only wobbled moderately as she put them down, cut bread, and stirred the soup while the grilled cheese began to bubble. Shortly, there was lunch.

Beckett took a cautious mouthful of her half-bowl of soup, and, when that stayed where it should, chased it with a mouthful of bread with a scrape of butter. Five minutes later her bowl was empty and the bread was gone.

"Could I get some more, please?"

"Sure."

A second, and then most of a third, half-bowl disappeared, along with another slice of bread.

"That's better," she said.

"Of course it is. Home-made soup is _always_ best."

"You made it?"

"Yep. It was in the freezer, though."

"What, not fresh?" she quipped.

"Mean. Very mean. Though I will say in return that it's not take-out." He grinned at her. "You look better already." She would have snarked, but it was overtaken by a yawn. "Go and sit down, and I'll make us some coffee."

Beckett did what she was told, falling into the cosiness of being looked after by Castle. When he arrived beside her, she instinctively nestled into the wide warmth of his chest, tucking her feet up under her and her head into his neck. Equally instinctively, Castle put his arm around her.

"There," he said. "You make a good comfort object. A bit bony, but you'll be back to your normal self in no time. Ow! Don't poke me, Beckett."

"I'm not bony. You're just" –

"Muscular. I am a finely toned specimen – ow! Don't do that!" He caught Beckett's hands in his, and tugged. Not expecting it, she fell forward and ended up in his lap."

"Well, well. Look what I caught. An NYPD detective." He neatly, and far too easily, turned her right way up. "Finders keepers," he murmured, and locked his hands at her back.

"You can't keep people. They're not pets."

"Pettable, though," he said, and demonstrated that her back was very strokable. It was intensely soothing. Beckett curved into his hands and gave a small, contented noise. "See, we just need to stay like this and it'll be okay."

"But when I'm fixed?"

Castle stared at the top of her head, and, unusually, thought before speaking. "Movies? Dinner? I know – making out! All the things we should have been doing since you arrested me at my own book party and then _wouldn't_ come on a date, which was totally unfair _and_ you knew exactly what you were doing when you sashayed off swinging your hips at me." He wasn't going _near_ the multiple layers of subtext filled with bear traps and flamethrowers inherent in her statement. Not without full body armour, asbestos inlay, and at least five Dr Burkes in the line of fire.

"You just wanted to get me into bed."

He stopped. "Only for that evening. But then I went home and for the first time in months I could write again and it was all you. I couldn't stay away. Not after that." He hugged her, and cradled her head into his neck. "I _have _to write. Not writing is… it's like losing an arm. Like you not being able to solve crime." She flinched. "You will, you know. You'll be back there proving Gates wrong with every case."

"She hates me."

"I don't think so. And even if she does, so what? You've got the stats. She needs you to keep her looking good. You got the power," he sang. Beckett rolled her eyes at him, just like normal, if she hadn't been cuddled up to him. "And she can't throw me out either. I got the Mayor," he sang to the same tune. Another eye-roll occurred.

"Anyway," he said, "we should do movies and dinner and lots of making out. Et cetera." He waggled his eyebrows salaciously. "But only when you're fully fit. It wouldn't be any fun to try the et ceteras if you weren't up to it."

"I can outrun you any day of the week when I'm not sick," Beckett said sulkily, spoiled by another yawn. "You're the one who isn't fit."

"I am," Castle said lazily. "Fit enough to lift you up and carry you romantically around. And I might not be as fast as you but I still keep up. I have stamina, my dear detective." She made a rude noise at him. "I could prove it…" He started to stand up, with her still against him.

"Okay," she said, a tad crossly. "Don't do that. Not unless you want second-hand soup."

"Eurgh." Castle sat down again, and returned to gentle petting. "Still a bit wobbly?"

"I should be fine by now."

"Have you ever actually been ill before?"

"I told you, when I had my tonsils out I was miserable."

"That doesn't count. It's an operation. Have you ever actually been ill? You haven't, have you? The worst you've had is a bad cold. You've never been really sick. It leaves you wiped out for weeks. You don't just bounce back like Superman the next day, and you were" – he stopped hard. "You were all alone and sick, until I showed up with soup and TLC."

Beckett had opened her mouth, and then shut it sharply again as he swerved the subject of exactly how she'd been when he showed up. Saying _you were trying to die_ wasn't going to help anyone. (_But she had been_, a little voice whispered.)

"So it's not surprising you're not better yet. _So_," he said with emphasis, "you should stay here and let me take care of you some more."

"You what now?"

"You should stay here," Castle said happily.

"That's a bit of a leap from spritzing my pillows with your aftershave."

"Cologne. Aftershave is for wannabes."

"Stop trying to change the subject. I have my own apartment."

"But you sleep better with me." He smirked.

Beckett scanned his face thoroughly. Castle preserved a bland countenance. "You're just trying to annoy me," she said finally.

He snickered. "Yep. I know you don't want to stay here, and anyway Mother is neither peaceful nor relaxing." Something flickered in her face. "But at least let me send you home with some of my patent tomato soup. In fact, I'll take you home."

He watched automatic resistance flare in her eyes – and then die, replaced by – was that _need_?

"Yes. Please." She was very soft where he'd caught her close, and while snark, banter, and flirtation had (maybe temporarily) brought his Beckett back, she was tired again.

"Okay. Stay put, and I'll get some soup for you."

Reluctantly, she dropped her arms from him and slid into the corner of the couch.

* * *

Castle's far-too-comfortable car delivered Beckett and her soup to her apartment rather faster than she would have liked. She didn't exactly want to be apart from him, even if they were skirting everything important.

"Will I be okay here?" he said, competently popping the Mercedes into a tight space.

"Huh?"

"I'm not going to get a ticket if I park here, am I?"

"No, but…"

"Coming up with you. It would be dreadful if you dropped my soup and wasted it on the elevator floor." She didn't believe him, but the idea that he might stay a little longer was too good to pass up, as was the warm arm around her waist and the knowledge that he'd catch her if she fell. She leaned against him, and the arm tightened fractionally: just enough to hold her close. It was all quite stupidly comforting.

And she'd almost lost it all, because she'd quite stupidly lied, and lied, and lied.

"What's wrong?" Castle asked.

"Same as ever. I lied to you."

"We're not talking about that," Castle said quickly. "Not now. We said we'd leave it for Dr Burke."

"I want it dealt with," she dragged out.

"Me too, but not without someone to help us fix it."

"Okay," she acceded. Truthfully, she didn't want to argue. "Coffee?"

"Please."

While Beckett made coffee, Castle padded around the apartment, unable to watch Beckett's shaky hands and knowing that interfering would be unhelpful. He wound up by her desk, and, congenitally curious, looked over it.

He stopped dead. There was a heavy paper envelope with his name on it in Beckett's well-known handwriting…and it wasn't sealed. He didn't even try to resist.

When he picked it up, shielded by his body and in a stance which would indicate that he was looking out of the window, he hesitated, but not for more than half a second. He slipped the contents out of the envelope – and stared.

It was a birthday card, and when he opened it, inside it said: _Castle. Happy birthday. Can I take you to dinner? KB_.

She'd never delivered it – because he'd walked out and she'd had an episode and it had all fallen apart. But here in his suddenly-tremulous hand was the written proof that she'd been about to step forward. He set it down, and stared blankly out of the window.

"Castle?" came uncertainly from behind him. "You still want coffee?"

"Uh, yes." He swung round. "You got me a birthday card. You were going to ask me out to dinner. You were going to _talk_." A step towards her. She hadn't moved an inch. "Were you going to tell me the truth?" She paled, hazel eyes and dark hair the only colour. Another step, and another, and still she didn't say a word or move. "Kate?" He reached her.

"I…I don't know any more." His hands dropped. "I…maybe I was just lying to myself, the same as I lied to you."

He brought her in. "You mean you were going to. Or you thought you could."

"Then." She shuddered. "But it doesn't matter because I'd lied for months and you'd have gone anyway."

"I" –

"Don't. We both know that's what happened."

"Because I found out by accident! If you'd told me… I don't know either." He stopped. "Why are we even talking about this? We shouldn't. We're heading right for another fight and we weren't going to _do_ that."

He stepped around her, without releasing her, and clicked the kettle on again, putting coffee in the French press. "Let's have our coffee." A kiss fell on her hair, and another. Gradually, she stopped shaking.

"Yeah. Coffee," but her hands still gripped his shirt.

"I won't leave," he reassured. "You can let go."

She didn't let go. Her hands slid up his chest and cupped his jaw: her gaze tilted up to meet his. A long finger glided over his lips. He kissed it, and it stayed put. His own hand covered it, holding her hand to his mouth as the other hand held her against him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said into her palm.

She slid her hand back to his jaw, shifted both to cradle his face, and drew his head down to hers, not kissing him, but foreheads touching, intimately close.

The coffee cooled, unnoticed.

Finally, they moved a fraction apart.

"When do you next see Burke?" Beckett asked.

"Tomorrow morning."

"Come here after you're done?"

"Sure. When do you next see him?"

"Monday."

"Come to the loft when you're done?"

"Okay."

"I'd better go home," he said, and then smiled. "But before I go…" She looked up. He drew her back to him, bent his head, and kissed her.

He meant it to be a brief, affectionate kiss goodbye. If only her lips hadn't parted, just that inviting fraction; if only she hadn't leaned in; if only he wasn't so addicted to her that he couldn't ever resist; if only he hadn't know that, before it all went wrong, she'd wanted to and intended to and thought she could put it all right, at a birthday dinner that had never happened.

He pulled her tighter against him: clasping her close and taking her mouth with ease, exploring and owning as he'd done so much earlier that day, even before his world had upended all over again. Her response was instant: all the hesitancy of her words lost in the truth of her actions: she pressed into him and gripped his neck; explored in her turn.

Somehow, they were on her couch: Beckett in his lap, a little turned. He cupped her skull and angled her to his questing mouth, taking hers and then trailing away, along her jaw and on to her neck: behind her ear where he could nip oh-so-gently at the lobe and make her wriggle; back to those lush lips and the secret desire spilling from her to him and back again; heavy breaths and soft hands; her too-slender frame wholly caged in his arms, as close as she could be, or he could hold her.

Her cotton t-shirt was no barrier to the broad hand slipping under and up on to the smooth skin of her back, searching –

And finding the hard jut of vertebrae, jabbing through her skin and shocking him into sense again before they started down a path that – on the evidence – they wouldn't be able to stop. Not now, not today, not here. Not when she wasn't fully well.

The painful rightness of his decision became apparent when, though she made a disappointed noise, she didn't protest, or begin again, but rested, lax, in his arms, eyes still closed.

"I really do have to go now," he said, and just about managed to shift her off his knee. He didn't manage to take his arm away, though. Nor did she manage to remove her fingers from his shirt, as fidgety as he usually was, plucking and twisting at the fabric, fiddling with a button.

"Don't pull it off," Castle said, achieving plaintiveness rather than a growl of _open it up and all the rest along with it_. She dropped her hand, and opened sleep-tinged eyes. "You're twisting it and if it falls off I'll have to sew it back on. I don't like sewing."

"Don't look at me," she yawned.

Castle finally managed to detach his reluctant self, and stood up. "Home." He smiled, open and full-hearted. "Till tomorrow."

"Night."

Castle gone, Beckett desultorily made herself the soup, ate it all with considerably less enthusiasm than at lunchtime, and then showered, washed her hair, dried it with more haste than care, and fell into bed, meaning to read, but in fact asleep well before nine.

* * *

Castle presented himself at Dr Burke's office in good time, still cheerful from the day before.

"Good morning, Rick."

"Hey."

Dr Burke allowed Rick to settle himself before beginning. "In our previous session, you provided a helpful timeline, and we finished with a request that you consider whether you are unconsciously angry at Kate. Shall we begin there?"

"Okay."

Dr Burke made a _please-continue_ gesture.

"You were right," Rick admitted. "I was angry. I…guess I am angry."

"Have you seen Kate since we met on Wednesday?"

"Yes."

Dr Burke raised an interrogative eyebrow.

"I, er, went straight there afterwards."

Dr Burke's other eyebrow flew up to join the first. "What transpired?" he inquired.

"Well…" Dr Burke waited patiently. "It started out okay. We went out to get lunch and she _said_ she was okay to walk but she wasn't…" Rick refocused. "Anyway. She complained that she slept better upstate and then she asked how her pillow there had smelled like me" – Dr Burke failed to follow how the one statement connected to the other, but did not stop the flow – "and I couldn't lie to her because lying's what messed us up in the first place" –

"Indeed."

"And she was totally shocked and" – he winced – "I lost my temper because I'd been doing my best to _stop her dying_ and she didn't seem to care and I said that it was sleep next to her or not sleep at all and _one of us totally useless was enough_ and she just walked out."

"Mm. You, of course, had meant that you needed to be well-rested to take care of Kate. She heard it as you believing that she was incapable." Rick stared. "I _am_ a psychiatrist, Rick. What happened next?"

"I went home. Then Beckett's dad turned up, and said exactly what you just said. So I told him I was angry that she lied and tired of making all the first moves and if she wouldn't try to fix things I wasn't going to. He left, and about an hour and a half later Beckett rang but I didn't pick up so she left a message."

"And?"

"She sounded awful and she apologised – she never says sorry – so I went round. And we need to talk about that because I just go running every time she gives me anything at all and I don't think that's how it should be because she should be giving more or I should be less available or something."

"We can certainly discuss that," Dr Burke confirmed.

"And then she said she was unhappy when we fought and she hated that and then she said she needed me," Rick rushed out in one breath. "So I stayed so she could sleep and in the morning we agreed we'd just…not talk about any of it unless you were there because we'll only fight and that isn't helping."

"I see. Avoidance until you are in a safe space to discuss the issues."

"I guess. Anyway, she came to see me after her session yesterday and we didn't really talk about anything much." Rick's ears coloured delicately. Dr Burke concealed his gentle amusement and did not enquire into the perfectly obvious. "Except she asked what would happen when she was fixed."

"What did you say?"

"I knew there was something behind it. So…I deflected. Dating, basically."

"I see. Tell me, Rick, would you prefer Kate to be broken so that you can continue to protect and try – and fail – to fix or rescue her, or to be mended, when you would no longer need to go running each time she calls?"

"Uh?"

"Presently, your relationship is predicated on Kate being unable to enter into a proper relationship with you because she is still suffering PTSD, recovering from flu, and enmeshed in her mother's case. Some of that has been the state of affairs for most of a year, and you have acted as a rescuer for all that time. I infer that fixing problems is something you do for those you love. The simple question is: would you still love Kate if she did not require rescuing?"

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests, who I can't thank directly._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Rick stared at Dr Burke, horrified. "What?"

"Would you still love Kate if she no longer required rescuing?" he repeated.

"_Yes!_" Rick's answer was instant.

"That is your instinctive reaction. However, I want you to consider the point carefully. Please think through whether that is truly the case, and if so, why it is the case."

Rick sat, silent. Dr Burke was almost certain of his answer, but Rick had to undertake some focused thinking in order that he would make decisions based on a firm foundation, not merely on emotion and instinct.

"I don't fix things for everyone," Rick said, almost defensive. "I'm not a 'rescuer' in your psychiatric terms." Dr Burke regarded him keenly. "Sure, I fixed it when my mother needed help, but that's not the same. I don't go out looking for broken birds to mend their wings."

"Hmm. And yet you have found one."

"She wasn't broken when I met her. She wasn't broken till someone _shot her through the heart_," Rick bit out. "When I met her she was " – he stopped.

"Was what?"

"She was a hero. I forgot I'd thought that."

"Forgot she was a hero?"

"No." Rick squirmed, and winced. "I was angry because heroes don't just get sick. They don't get sick like ordinary people, I mean." His lips twisted. "That's not quite what I mean. I mean, ordinary people get ill and take a while to get better but heroes are never shown like that. They have heroic weaknesses but they don't get colds, or flu, or stomach bugs. And she… she's extraordinary, so she shouldn't just get sick like that. I could just about deal with her being shot and even PTSD because heroes get injured and have psychological issues, but she just got ordinary flu and heroes _don't_."

"You had, in fact, put her on a pedestal."

"I guess. And then she lied and she had flu and… I don't know."

"Mm. So you have found that Kate has ordinary weaknesses. Why was this surprising?"

"She's…indomitable. Indefatigable. She's never been ill. She's never been anything except totally – brutally – honest. Until now," he added. "She's extraordinary. Everything about her…"

"And if she is only human, can you still love her?"

"Yes."

"Even though you are angry that she is, after all, only human, and makes mistakes, becomes ill, and even lies?"

"Yes. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health. I loved her before she was broken. I couldn't stop loving her now, even after everything." He swallowed. "I wanted to. Just after I heard her. I wanted to stop. And then I made Ryan find her and just went running after her because she – I told myself it was to end it but I knew I couldn't. Not when I knew something was wrong. No matter how angry I was. Am. I don't like that all I seem to do is run after her."

"Apart from two days ago, when Kate's father intervened, have you ever not run after her, as you put it?"

Rick's forehead creased. "Uh…oh. Yes. She was dating someone else, so I just left her to it."

"And?"

"Uh, well, I got caught by the team at a murder scene but then she made a bet that if I identified the killer before her I could come back to the precinct. She thinks I don't know that she wasn't trying too hard to win," he added meditatively.

"That was one occasion. Have there been any others?"

"Last September. But I guess you know all about that already."

"I do not have your perspective."

Rick flashed Dr Burke a sardonic, knowing glance, to which Dr Burke refused to react.

"She disappeared from the hospital to the same Godforsaken cabin she ran away to this time. We – none of us knew where she'd gone and she didn't talk to any of us till she got back to the city and was passed fit to work. I didn't go looking for her because she'd said she _needed time_" – he almost spat the words – "and it was all I could give her. So when I heard she was back and she hadn't got in touch with me, I left her to it."

"I see."

"And then she came to my book signing – but you know all that – and she gave me some half-assed story about her walls and I just let her and we ignored all the big issues just like we always do. Till now."

"In both cases, leaving aside the last few days, she came to you."

"She wasn't going to do it this time. She just ran off and she was going to stay there and _rot_. She knew I wouldn't come, because I hadn't answered her calls."

Dr Burke stayed silent.

"When I showed up, she didn't believe I'd come. She told me to go away again. She was just" – he choked on the words – "going to die. She'd given up." He paused. "Sometimes I think she still has."

"Without being specific," Dr Burke cautioned, "no-one attends therapy if they have given up."

Rick acquired an expression of disbelief, but refrained from further comment.

"So. Twice, Kate has come to you. How often have you gone to her?"

Rick thought. "Ummm… after the first summer…half and half after the second, because after they found me at the crime scene I pushed a bit but then she didn't try with the bet…ummm…and then Montgomery made the second real one by calling me… and then I followed her after the signing but I suppose she'd got there first… and now."

"That does not sound as if you are constantly running after her."

"_That_ doesn't. But I – oh. I open up, and she doesn't. She just won't share, so I feel as if I'm putting all the work in, but it's the same as I said last time: I do words and she does actions and I don't see her actions because they're tiny."

"Tiny because there are no words to accompany them, or tiny because they are in fact only just enough to entice you?" Dr Burke chose the word with care. Having treated Kate for months, he was sure that _enticing_ was not her aim, but he was exceedingly interested in Rick's view.

"She just doesn't _talk_."

"For a moment, consider her actions. What does Kate do to show you that she cares?"

Rick was silent for a long while. "She… she started to involve me in cases, not just roll her eyes. She drops in to talk about them." His eyes looked inward. "Last year… Valentine's Day. We'd had a rough case." His lips twisted. "A guy I thought was straight up, a friend… he wasn't. Anyway. Beckett was supposed to go out with her boyfriend, but she took the first part of the evening to buy me a Scotch – or three – and make sure I was okay. But we didn't talk about anything. That was just after that op I mentioned earlier when we kissed. We didn't talk about that, either."

"Was there anything else?"

"I guess… Ryan – one of the team – and I got caught by a killer. He got away," Rick added bitterly. "But Beckett wasn't angry. She just sat next to me and held my hand and waited till I was okay again. But we never talked about that, again."

"Mm. So at key moments, when you were distressed, she comforted you, as you did for her now."

"I guess," Rick said doubtfully.

"Would you have said – before the incident in which it became apparent that she lied – that you were becoming closer?"

"Yes." He paused. "I forgot. When I was there yesterday I found a birthday card. She'd bought me a card and she was going to take me to dinner – no-one ever takes me to dinner except Beckett – she never lets me buy her anything and she insists that she pays for dinner every second time which is ridiculous" –

"But it is an action which expresses her feelings."

"Uh?"

"She does not wish to treat you as a meal ticket," Dr Burke said bluntly. "She wishes to be on an equal footing. However, tell me more about the birthday card and your conclusions."

"It was just there. I – well, I said that she was going to give me it and talk and maybe even explain that she lied – maybe even _why_ – but then we agreed that would just cause another fight so we parked it but she'd already said that she thought she could but now she doesn't know."

"Why do you think that she might say that?"

"She thought she was fixed. And then she wasn't."

Dr Burke waited.

"Oh. Ohmigod. Oh. I didn't see that earlier. She _thought she was fixed_. So she could finally _talk_ to me. She thought she'd got rid of her walls and she was all ready to actually _talk_ and – I need to go see her. Right now."

"I would not do so," Dr Burke said repressively.

"But… but she was seeing you to _get fixed_ so we could have something. You don't get it." Dr Burke certainly did 'get it', but he was not prepared to allow Rick to blunder in without a clear strategy. "She couldn't have done more. She was getting fixed for _us_."

"But Kate did not tell you she was in therapy."

Dr Burke might as well have doused Rick in ice water.

"No…"

"How does that make you feel?"

Strangely, Rick smiled. "Well, I haven't told her that I had some therapy of my own, after the shooting. So I'm okay with her not telling me. I wouldn't expect her to tell me about her medical appointments – and I wouldn't tell her about mine – and this is just the same."

Dr Burke was, a touch unwillingly, impressed. He had not expected Rick to make that connection without some guidance. "I see."

"Anyway, that's not really the point. The point is that she was about to come to me. She did all this work so she could do that honestly and tell me the truth. It doesn't get bigger than that."

"While lying to you." Dr Burke left that hanging. He, of course, understood why Kate had lied, having had many sessions with her in which he had tried to show her that lying would not answer. He was yet to be convinced that Rick had both understood why Kate had lied and started to deal with his justifiable anger that she had done so.

"Yes… I don't get why she lied. She could have told me…" Rick relapsed into silence, which Dr Burke considered to denote further thought. Shortly, it became apparent that thought had occurred. "She said," he dragged out, "that she couldn't live if she remembered dying. That if she told me she wanted to forget everything about that day, all I'd hear was that she wanted to forget that I… that I loved her." He took a harsh, hurting breath. "And she would have been right. She just ran off as soon as she could leave the hospital and that would have been enough proof."

"Mm?"

"But… I hadn't ever seen an episode, till now. Because I hadn't, I wouldn't have known. Even from the outside, it's horrifying. She just isn't there – as if she were dead – she _died_, and every time she has an episode she dies all over again and _now_ I get it but I wouldn't have got it before I'd seen it. It isn't about me, or anything I said or feel or did. It's all about dying."

Dr Burke smiled at Rick. "Indeed. An experience which I would not wish upon anyone."

"Yeah," Rick said, heartfelt. "Oh, yes."

Dr Burke tip-tapped his fountain pen. "Our time is up. Please make another appointment for as soon as possible. We should maintain momentum." Rick nodded, somewhat unwillingly. "However, affectionate gestures will not harm anything, and I recommend that you try to continue those."

Dr Burke smiled more widely as Rick left, bright colour staining his cheeks.

* * *

Castle went straight to Beckett's apartment, pausing only for long enough to buy them both coffee – the original affectionate gesture. The door opened quite quickly after his knock, which was a good sign, and Beckett was both dressed and had put on her usual eye make-up, which was better.

"Hey," she said, and even though her eyes had automatically gone to the coffee go-cups, she hugged him as soon as he was through the doorway. Not expecting it, and certainly not expecting any force behind her grasp, he staggered alarmingly as she pulled him in.

"You're getting better," he said, straightening up and stabilising himself with her in his grip. "You nearly pulled me over."

"About time," Beckett grumbled. "I've been like a wet noodle for weeks." Castle's mouth twitched. "Don't even think it."

"Think what?" he said innocently, but the crinkles around his eyes gave him away.

"Just don't." She took the coffee from him and went to the couch, sitting down with less of a collapse than the previous day and burying her nose in the opened go-cup.

Castle followed her and, since, of course, he would adhere to the psychiatrist's prescription, slung his arm around Beckett and neatly snuggled up to her. "There. All cosy." She hummed questioningly. "Dr Burke prescribed it."

"Hugs?"

"Yep. So, hugs there shall be."

Beckett nestled into the hug, and sipped her coffee, and asked nothing, which Castle found almost reassuring. She really was leaving the troublesome matters to the sessions with Dr Burke. He eased, and cuddled further around her, and as she finished her coffee, dropped a gentle buss on her hair. She turned into him, and raised her face to his in invitation. He wouldn't, couldn't, decline.

Soft, undemanding contact begat harder exploration: hands locking around her to hold her in; hers climbing to his shoulders, more tightly around his neck than the previous day – but although she was responsive, she wasn't taking the initiative, allowing him to lead, to explore as he chose.

"Is something wrong?"

"Huh?" She pulled back, and looked at him, wide-eyed. "Wrong? No. Why?"

"You seemed a bit…" He failed to think of a word that wasn't going to come out as a criticism.

Beckett coloured. "It was nice," she managed, through her blush. "Easy. Just…" She stopped.

"Mm?" Castle managed to restrain himself.

"No pressure." He could barely hear her, and her head had dropped away.

"Pressure?" He only just stopped the flow of infuriated _I would never pressure anyone: how could you say that_? in favour of waiting for further explanations. (_Astonishing_, a Dr-Burke like voice rang in his brain. _A sensible course of action_.)

"If you… I'd want to… but I'm still not better and we're not fixed and it wouldn't be a good idea because I couldn't but I wouldn't stop." Which made very little sense on first pass, but then began to clarify as Castle considered it more carefully. Ah. Okay. Still not well enough for anything that might be…um…physical exertion. Unwilling to cover their still-massive issues with the undoubtedly scorching sex. It made sense. It had all flared up inordinately fast the previous day, and they'd barely been able to stop. So she was holding back – and didn't want to.

He kissed her hair again. "Works for me," he reassured. "Stay here and be cosy." She nestled back. "That's better."

Castle finally left, some time after his coffee was done, leaving Beckett to make herself a solitary lunch – more soup: this time purchased, and toast. She followed it with ice cream, and felt better.

* * *

"Good morning, Kate," Dr Burke said pleasantly. He observed that she was less drawn, though still painfully thin and pallid.

"Hey."

"In our previous session, you said that you did not want to stay broken. Having had time to reflect, I ask you again, would you prefer to be broken with Rick, or recovered without him?"

"Recovered," Kate said. "I don't want to be dependent. I want to be me again."

"Explain."

"I hate being weak. I hate that I lied. I don't like who I am right now." Her face pinched. "It's not me and I wish…"

"Mm?"

"Sometimes I wish I'd never recovered. That I'd just died. It would have been easier." She reached blindly for a Kleenex, and covered her face. "It was all gone. All ruined and I couldn't deal with any of it. I still can't. I can't stop the flashbacks and I couldn't tell the truth and how can he trust me? How could anyone? I can't even trust myself."

There, thought Dr Burke, was another core issue. Kate could no longer trust herself: mentally or physically.

"What do you feel you cannot trust about yourself?"

"Everything. I get a flashback if I see anything that might resemble the" – she hitched – "_incident_, or somebody uses a direct term" – which Dr Burke noted that Kate was shying from – "and I can't even walk half a mile, let alone run. I _never_ get ill. Never. I was fit and healthy and I can't even get over the flu."

"Flu can be a serious illness" –

"For babies and seniors."

"No, for anyone. It is not at all unusual for ordinarily fit people to be ill for two or more weeks, and to take more time to be fully recovered." Dr Burke only just avoided a didactic tone, and also barely avoided pointing out that a psychiatrist was also a qualified MD. The scepticism on Kate's face was not endearing.

"I could feel this bad for _longer_?"

"Yes."

"But I have to be _better_."

"Why?"

"You what now? I have to be better to get back to work and be fixed."

"But Captain Gates will not allow you back, you have told me, unless your PTSD is fully addressed and you have resolved your issues with Rick, whether you are recovered from the flu or not. So there is no urgency to do so. You will have time." He steepled his fingers. "You should not push yourself physically. The mind and body are linked."

"I wish I'd never come back," Kate whispered. "I can't do this."

Dr Burke considered. "And yet you faced down your Captain, twice, and returned with Rick. What has changed since those events, except that you are taking longer to recover than you expected?"

There was a long silence.

"It's just too hard. I'm tired of having to fight."

Dr Burke regarded Kate keenly. "You said, only a few moments ago, that you wanted to be yourself again. Describe to me, please, your view of that self."

"I used to be confident. Truthful. Able to do my job. Healthy."

"And obsessed with your mother's case."

Kate stopped.

"Is that not true? You have previously told me that, prior to Captain Montgomery's funeral, you had had two significant breaches with Rick directly relating to your mother's case."

"Ye-es." She swallowed. "You're saying that wasn't healthy."

"Do you think that it was?"

Kate swallowed again, as if she were gulping a bitter ball of truth. "No," she admitted. "But…for so long it was all I had, and I couldn't – I thought I was letting her down because – and that was all wrong too but then I got shot and I thought I was getting _fixed_. Until now."

"If you had to choose between a life spent pursuing your mother's case, one in which you were 'fixed' and did not pursue it, or one in which you were not 'fixed' but still did not pursue it, which would you choose?"

She considered. "I don't like any of them. I want – whatever life I have, I want to be fixed. And I want Castle there."

"More than you wish to see your mother's killer caught?"

"Yes," she said, without hesitation, and then paused uncomfortably. "But best of all would be to have all three."

"Naturally. But if that were not possible, you wish to recover, and you wish to be in a relationship with Rick."

"Yes."

"Had you not been shot" – Kate froze, and Dr Burke berated himself for not choosing his words carefully. It took more than a moment for her focus to return – "where do you think you would be now?"

"With Castle," she murmured. "I was all ready…"

"I see." Dr Burke was relieved. "Now, we have finished the session, but I believe it would be best if you returned on Wednesday. I have a free appointment at the end of the day, if that is not too late for you?"

"No. Okay. Thank you."

"You may not think it, but you are making progress. I have no doubt that you will overcome these issues. I shall see you on Wednesday, when I consider that we should return to trying to address your PTSD. As far as Rick is concerned, you have identified your priorities, and it would be helpful to allow those matters to settle for a short while."

Kate grimaced. "I guess."

"We should try to address these matters so that they progress in tandem. I find that to be most effective."

"You're the shrink. Okay. See you on Wednesday."

"Good bye."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Beckett left Dr Burke's feeling unusually reassured, if not happy. Despite her misery in the middle of the session and the flashback, being made to identify her real goals had given her focus. She – well, she didn't exactly _swing_ off to Castle's: in fact, she hailed a taxi, with a memory of the…um…difficulties… of negotiating the subway in her post-flu state, but she surely felt less enervated.

"Hey," Castle smiled as he opened the door. "I hoped you'd come."

"Here I am." She stepped in, and was promptly swept up into a hug.

"_Here_ you are," Castle murmured mischievously. "Much better place for you."

She pressed into his wide chest, looking for the warmth and safety that she knew she would find there, wrapping her arms around his waist and hiding her face in his shoulder. As she breathed him in, she eased.

"You okay?" he asked, rubbing gently up and down her back.

She opened her lips on a _yes_, and shut them again before it emerged. "Maybe?" He patted some more, simultaneously walking her over to the couch.

"Was it bad? You don't need to tell me any details," he added quickly, "just yes or no."

She stayed pressed in. "Revealing," she eventually emitted. "But I had another flashback." Castle's grip tightened around her, and he sat them both down with Beckett tucked on his lap.

"I thought…" he began.

"They'd stopped? No." She clipped the negative off short, but didn't try to pull away. "I don't wanna talk about them here." Her nose buried itself in his neck.

"'Kay. What shall we do?"

Beckett was quite sure Castle had plenty of ideas, but she simply wanted to stay safely in his arms. It occurred to her that her unusual wish to stay cuddled in and feel secure should confirm her statement to Dr Burke that she wanted a relationship with him, but then, it seemed that they were more than halfway there already. "This. That's all. Just…hold me."

And so he did, for the short while until she recovered some energy and slid from his lap to sit beside him.

"I liked you there," Castle said plaintively.

"Mmm." She didn't see the need for words. Castle was big, warm, and cosily comfortable – and if she didn't get up and go home, her eyes would close and she'd be asleep. Castle would make her eat, though. He always made sure she ate, even if it was only extra candy. So he'd waken her…she was already drifting, dozing…sound asleep.

Castle smiled fondly down at Beckett's sleeping head. He'd been quite sure that, one way or another, she'd fall asleep next to him. He managed to stand without losing contact with her, picked her up, and simply repatriated her to his bed, slipping off her ballet pumps but otherwise leaving her there. Beckett safe, he opened up his laptop and found inspiration to the sound of her soft breathing. In a little while, he'd make some lunch. Fajitas, maybe. Quick and tasty, and she would only need to eat as much as her stomach would bear.

On balance, he decided, even the small opening she'd given, the admission that her sessions were rough, was progress. He'd love to know what had gone on today, but he could – yes, he really could – control his curiosity as long as she kept moving towards him. He returned to his keyboard with a sense of hope which had been missing for almost a month, which wasn't dented even when he remembered that he had a session with Dr Burke the following day.

Around an hour later, Beckett emerged, a little shyly, running fingers through her tousled hair. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's okay. You can sleep in my bed any time," Castle flirted, and waggled his eyebrows. "Obviously it would be nicer if I was in it too, but I have to get some writing done some time." He could feel the eye-roll without even looking. "Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah. Um…could we get some lunch?"

"Sure. I've got the ingredients for fajitas" –

"I meant, can I get lunch for us?"

Castle boggled at her. "You want to go out for lunch?"

"Yeah." Her face closed a little. "Don't you want to?"

"Yes. I do. I just thought…well, um" –

"It wasn't a success last time. I…I wanted to do it right."

Castle stood up in a hurry and grabbed her in, landing a frantic kiss on her face, missing her mouth in his haste, re-orienting to meet her lips. "You don't need to do it better," he said, coming up for air. "You don't have to be perfect." More kisses. "You just have to show me you want me. That's all." Another desperate kiss. "That's everything." He stopped talking and simply kept on kissing her: holding her hard into him, as close as he could keep her; exploring and owning her mouth as she returned in kind; both of them frantic and desperate. His hands slid under her sweater and t-shirt, hers were locked around his back, plucking at the fabric of his button-down; breathing sped up.

"I am trying," she whispered into their kiss.

"Me too," Castle murmured back. "Trying together." He kissed her more deeply, moving to an armchair, sitting down, never losing touch with her parted lips, lunch entirely forgotten.

Sense, however, was not forgotten. Much as he wanted to go further, kiss harder, touch and feel and share and light them up – it was totally clear that she wasn't fit for it, and from her lack of further exploration, she knew it too. He drew back a little, still clasping her close, leaned against her forehead.

"What about lunch?" she asked, a few moments later, keeping her arms around him. Castle's stomach answered before his mouth did. "Dim sum?"

"Okay." He understood the message. She was taking them back to where they'd got it wrong, to try to get it right. "Let's go."

Beckett insisted they walk the short distance, but all the way there he insisted that his arm stayed around her. It probably wasn't required – she seemed much less wobbly than the previous week – but caution was indicated. The fact that caution precisely suited his book was exceedingly helpful, of course.

"I have a session tomorrow," Castle said over coffee. "Ugh," he added gloomily. Beckett stared into her cup and didn't comment. "I wish I could just wave a wand and magically fix it all. And if I had a magic wand, I could make Gates vanish."

She snickered. "That would be good." Castle thought she was much brighter even than earlier in the day – that was, after she'd had a nap in his bed. She'd said she slept better when he was there… His own mood rose, and he even didn't protest (too much) when Beckett paid.

"I'm going to get home," Beckett said, check dealt with. Castle didn't think that was at all a good plan. "I need to do some thinking, now my head's clearer." She smiled softly. "Seeing you really helped. Thanks."

He supposed it made sense, but he'd have preferred an afternoon of her company with the possibility that he could persuade her to stay for dinner and then some restful sleep tucked against him. It would have improved his sleep, too, which was still somewhat disturbed.

* * *

He didn't realise they hadn't made any agreement about his dropping by after his session until he was already almost at Dr Burke's Midtown practice, the following day, courtesy of a lightning bolt of Nikki-inspiration and then a hurried lunch before he left, and by then he didn't really have time to text. He wandered into the soothingly decorated reception feeling more positive than for weeks.

"Good afternoon, Rick."

"Hey."

"In our previous session, we discussed your responses and thoughts concerning Kate's actions, and it seemed that you had approached an understanding of both your reactions and her feelings. Is there anything else of which I should be aware relating to your relationship with Kate, which we should consider before a joint session?"

Rick thought. Abruptly, his colour disappeared. "Yes. Oh, God. There is."

"There is?" What fresh complication could possibly cause Rick to react in such an extreme fashion? Dr Burke considered this development to be exceedingly ominous.

"After…" Dr Burke noticed most particularly that Rick avoided saying _the shooting_, or any form of words containing _shot_… "I got a call. Someone who'd known Montgomery. They… they gave me a file. His file. And they said to keep it away from Beckett and she'd be safe."

Dr Burke gaped, all professional blandness destroyed.

"So I did. I did my best to forget it existed." Rick's voice was dull, dead. "I wanted to forget that she'd just go running off into danger without caring. I didn't want her to die again. So I locked it away and forgot it."

"I see. Clearly, Kate is completely unaware of this?"

"Yes." Rick slumped.

"In effect, you have concealed it from her."

"I was trying to keep her alive! I haven't looked at it. I didn't even open the envelope."

"Indeed. But can you not see, Rick, that you have lied to her – by omission rather than commission, but still lied – about a matter that is as important to her, I infer, as your declaration of love was to you?"

Rick slumped further. "I get it."

"How do you think that she will react to discovering the truth?"

"Badly."

Dr Burke thought that statement to be a significant minimisation of the likely position. He might have chosen the word _catastrophic_, and he was not given to exaggeration.

"Quite," was all he said, however.

"I need to tell her." Rick looked as if he'd rather cut his throat. "I have to tell her."

Dr Burke agreed with that. Truth, it was clear, would be the only way forward. However, "I recommend you do so in a joint session, mediated by me."

Rick nodded vehemently. "Please. Otherwise…" He ground to a halt. It appeared that the enormity of the issue had gagged him.

"We should do so at the first opportunity. It would be unwise to provoke difficult discussions until that session."

"Tomorrow? If…I don't know if I can see her without her guessing something's wrong and then she'll interrogate till I either leave or tell her…"

"Tomorrow. We shall make space. Kate already has an appointment, so we will build on that." He consulted his appointment system. "How fortunate. As I thought, she has the final appointment of the day, so that if more time is necessary it will be available."

"Do morticians do overtime?" Rick asked bleakly.

Dr Burke frowned at him. "You stand in little danger," he said dryly. "I do not permit murder in my treatment room." Rick did not appear cheered.

When Rick had left, after several repetitions of his concerns, none of which could be alleviated until the joint session, Dr Burke sighed. He was quite certain that the next day's session would be painful and lengthy, and had a very high chance of producing a temporary breach between his patients. He was relatively sure that the breach would only be temporary, but there was always a further chance that it might be permanent. He sighed again, and then put it from his well-disciplined mind.

* * *

Castle trudged home, and unsuccessfully attempted to lose his terror of the next day in mindless procrastination and computer games. After some time, he added a small Scotch. In the small hours, he simply gave up, and slumped unhappily, sure that Beckett would go utterly nuclear. She'd just run right back into it.

Oh shit. Ohhhh shit. Beckett had said, up there in that isolated cabin, when he'd said he wouldn't let her die – she'd said _You can't stop me_. If he handed over the file – and he wasn't going to be able to withhold it, because – he winced – it was _her_ story – then he couldn't stop her. He wasn't able to destroy it, which would destroy her and any last faint chance of a _them_. If she wanted to die… he'd have handed her the means.

After that thought, he didn't sleep at all.

* * *

He stumbled into Dr Burke's office a moment or two late on Wednesday, not entirely accidentally. He couldn't lie to Beckett's face, and she would be sure to ask why he hadn't been in touch yesterday. The receptionist ushered him in, right in the middle of Dr Burke's question as to where he was.

"Good afternoon" –

"Castle?"

"I asked Rick to be present," Dr Burke said. "There is a matter that must be put before both of you before we can proceed further." Beckett looked confused. Castle swallowed, sat down heavily in a different chair, and gathered himself.

Dr Burke remained unobtrusive, and waved Rick to begin.

"I…" he began. Kate stared at him, already knowing something was wrong, but not what. "I…just after" – he still avoided saying _you were shot_ – "a friend of Montgomery's called me. He…" Dr Burke observed not Rick, but Kate. Her face was tightening, bloodless, leaping to conclusions faster than Rick's words emerged. "He said he had information. A file. He gave me it." –

"You were given a file of _evidence in my mother's murder_ and you didn't tell me?" Anger sliced the air. "You've had it for _ten months_ without telling me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"To keep you safe. They said they'd kill you if you carried on. If I told you you'd have gone running after it" –

"You lied to me." Dr Burke winced as Kate's fury rose. "You walked away from me and you got angry with me because _I_ lied, and now, _now_, when I've grovelled for forgiveness, I find out you lied. You _hypocrite_."

"I wanted to keep you safe! I didn't want you to go running off and _die_ again. You'd just go after it if you knew there was any evidence" –

"I don't _care_ about the evidence!"

Dr Burke's jaw fell.

"I _care _that you_ lied!_ You walked away because you found out I lied and hid it from you, so you were just going to ditch me, but I should just get past that you've done _exactly the same_, right here right now? Were you testing to see how low I'd go to be with you? How much you could demand without ever telling me the truth? Pretending _you're_ the one who should do all the forgiving and _I _should beg and plead for it?" She stood up, agony and fury crackling around her. "You lied to me, and all this time since you overheard me, you've been punishing me for lying to you."

"No!"

Kate turned to Dr Burke, ignoring Rick. "I think we're done here. You can report to Gates that that Castle won't be coming back. We'll work on the rest till I'm fixed. I could maybe have dealt with this if he'd told me the truth when he was berating me for lying. But he hid it. All the time I thought it was all my fault and he was lying just as much as I was." She moved to the door. Rick hadn't moved a muscle.

"I was trying to keep you alive!" he cried, just as she touched the handle.

"That's not the _point_! You dumped me because I lied to you about the most important thing to you because I wanted to forget being _dead_, but you lied too." She slumped. "I wish you'd never come up to the cabin. I wish you'd just left me to it. I'd have been better off dead than trying to love you. All you wanted was me whimpering at your feet so you could play the great redeemer and look like a magnanimous hero. Well, fuck that and you too. We're done."

"I couldn't let you die _again_. You flatlined after you were shot" – Dr Burke was just too late to catch Kate as she went rigid.

Rick reached her first, and put her on the couch.

"She is in shock," Dr Burke said.

A small noise came from the couch.

"Rick, I suggest that you remove yourself to the room next door while I talk to Kate. We must suspend the joint session for the moment, following her reaction to your revelation." Dr Burke did not intend to stop the session, merely to separate the parties while he dealt with Kate. His immediate concern was the effect that the disclosure had had on Kate, and, almost as worrying, the further issue of the increased intensity of this flashback.

Dr Burke prepared a glass of water, and waited the short time until Kate's eyes opened. Her face creased, and her lips pinched white; everything about her indicating a lack of receptivity.

"Thank you," she said with finality. "I think we've proved that this was all a complete waste of your time. Tell Gates whatever you like. I won't be allowed back anyway, since you'll have to tell her the truth, so there's no point."

There was an ugly silence, broken by Dr Burke.

"Can you not see, Kate, that Rick has taken exactly the same path as you? He should not have lied – but neither should you. He has attempted to block out the matter, in order to keep you alive and, he hoped, to achieve a relationship, just as you tried to block out the day of your injury" – he chose his words carefully: a flashback at that moment would help nobody – "in order to keep the possibility of having a relationship alive. You were both wrong, for the same understandable reasons. You are reacting to his lie in precisely the way in which you feared, and experienced, that he would react to yours: walking away from him. And yet he returned."

A further ugly silence filled the air.

"I wish you to consider this concept for a few moments. I shall go and speak to Rick. Please do not leave until I return and we have spoken once more. If nothing else, your flashbacks are most concerning, and must be treated, whether you wish to return to active duty with the NYPD or not."

Dr Burke left the room, rigid-spined. He understood precisely why Kate felt that Rick had behaved hypocritically. That did _not_, however, make her belief correct. Really, the pair of them were far too alike for comfort. Both trying to preserve a relationship, for the right reasons, but in completely the wrong manner: both hopelessly in love with each other and completely incapable of using that to heal, not hurt; both trying to protect each other and achieving only worse damage. He emitted an irritated _pah!_, and tapped sharply on the door to the room in which Rick should have disposed himself.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Just by way of information, I'm away from home and posting timings (but not days) may be variable._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

"Yeah?"

Dr Burke entered, and stopped as he took in Rick's ashen, much-older face. "Kate reacted largely as we predicted."

"Yeah. You don't need to tell me."

"Kate has now behaved precisely as she expected you to behave – indeed, as you did behave – when you discovered her lie."

Rick sat down, heavily. He emitted an expression which Dr Burke ignored. Profanity was generally an unpleasant form of communication.

"Yeah. But she won't try and force a showdown. She'll just walk away. Just like always. I guess we're done."

"I am not as sure of that as you appear to be. However, if you wish to use that as your excuse for finishing your association, that is your prerogative."

Rick's blood drained from his face. "What?"

Dr Burke waited to discover the results of his intentional provocation. He was exceedingly interested in Rick's response.

Rick's mouth opened and shut, without producing words. Eventually he spoke. "But…_no_! Why would I do that when I went to _get her back_? I just want her _alive_." Dr Burke waited again. "You're saying I don't really want her. I just wanted to win. To prove I could win her. And then when I got her I could just let go."

Dr Burke waited yet further. That had indeed been a possibility, although its likelihood had been small, and was reducing with every moment. However, Rick needed to discount the chance for himself.

"You're wrong. I _do_ want her. I _love _her." A further pause, in which, even in his shocked state, Rick succeeded in drawing the next logical conclusion. "You want me to understand how Beckett felt when she thought I'd gone for good." A tiny, choking hitch. "And now we both feel the same way about each other's reactions, because we've both done the same things to each other. Oh, God."

Dr Burke declined to react to the ensuing stream of barely under-the-breath profanity, instead sitting down and mentally reviewing the paper on gunshot trauma, which he had recently read. He considered that, since he would undoubtedly need to use the techniques discussed therein, that would be a better use of his time than being subjected to indirect aural assault.

"Now what?" Rick asked miserably, after a shorter time than Dr Burke had expected. "I don't want to lose her. I never did, even when I thought I'd given up on her and told myself I was done."

"Now, I discover whether Kate has reflected on the position in which the two of you have found yourselves. After that, we will all know whether there is a way forward, and how long that will take to be travelled. I shall return in a few moments."

Dr Burke exited, and returned to his treatment room, hoping that Kate had remained. He was not entirely sanguine. She had suffered a severe shock, although, as he had advised both parties, they had now each directly experienced the pain that they had inflicted on the other. It was not the way in which Dr Burke would have preferred them to come to such a realisation, although given their mutual misunderstandings, it might have been the only way in which it would truly be comprehended.

When he entered, Kate was slumped in the chair which she had previously occupied, rather than on the couch.

"How could he?" she said desolately. "How could he hide it and lie? He was so furious I'd lied, how could he do just the same to me?"

"You lied about your memory of the day in order to prevent Rick learning that you wished to forget all about it, which included his declaration of love. Why did you do that?"

"You know why. Because he'd be hurt that I didn't want to remember it and I never wanted him to be hurt." Dr Burke waited. He had spent much time in waiting in this session. "Oh. You mean that he didn't want me hurt again. Physically. And I didn't want him hurt mentally."

"Indeed. Now, you need to consider whether, in fact, you want to have a relationship with Rick. After all, you must have known that eventually your lie – we will not consider his lie, for which he may make his own amends – would be exposed. When that happened, did it not occur to you that Rick would be extremely hurt and would most likely walk away? And would that not have given you the excuse you needed in order not to enter into a full relationship with him?"

Kate stared at him. "I didn't spend almost a year seeing you so I could _walk away_. I did it so I could be _with_ him." Dr Burke raised his eyebrows sceptically. "I _did_," she insisted.

"And yet, when he made the same mistake you had made, you are ready to walk away from it all."

"It's not just that he lied. It's that he made me feel so guilty about lying to him and then _deigned_ to forgive me, when he'd done just the same and hid it too."

"Why do you think Rick 'deigned' to forgive you, instead of simply forgiving?"

"He just kept losing his temper till I'd grovelled enough," she said bitterly. "He wouldn't listen when I tried to explain, only once I'd apologised. He didn't want to hear any reasons, only sorry. If he'd been sincere, he'd have listened to the reasons."

"But you told me that you did not feel that you were able to explain your reasons, which is why both of you were attending separate appointments."

Kate stopped. "Huh?"

Dr Burke repeated his statement. "It is hardly surprising," he added, "that both of you misunderstood. You could not explain. You defaulted to apologising, or arguing, _because_ you could not explain. Rick, though also arguing, accepted it as a half-way house. His acceptance was not because you apologised, but because he recognised your attempt at explanation even if that attempt failed." Dr Burke sighed. "Anger is not condescension. Rick has been angry with you, as you are presently angry with him. Neither of you is unjustified in taking that position."

"Oh," Kate said, in a much more thoughtful fashion, which Dr Burke was considerably relieved to hear.

"I shall return in a few moments."

"Shuttle diplomacy?"

"If you wish to call it so. I do not think that it will serve any purpose for you and Rick to be in the same room at present."

Kate flinched. Dr Burke could not find it in himself to be sorry. Both parties required a sharp reminder to return them to within some reasonable distance of common sense and understanding, upon which thought, he returned to Rick's room.

"Is she okay? Will she see me? Did she stay?"

"Yes. But it is inadvisable for you to see her at present."

"What? No. I wanna see her. I need to see her."

"Kate is still coming to terms with the situation. Another emotional scene would be unhelpful and damaging. If I were you, I would wait. Patience will serve you better."

Rick slumped back into his chair. "So I just wait? Haven't I waited enough?"

"Has Kate not waited too?"

"Uh?" Dr Burke allowed Rick to consider. "How did _she_ wait? She" – he looked at the sentence unrolling in front of him – "oh. She was doing things – seeing you – and waiting till she was fixed. She said so." He swallowed. "But then she said it didn't matter because she'd never be fixed."

"And yet she is here. As are you."

"I'm so tired of waiting," Rick said miserably. "I really thought we were getting somewhere and then she got shot and it all went to hell right then. We're a year on, pretty much, and nothing's changed."

"There is nothing obliging you to continue in counselling, or indeed in trying to form a relationship with Kate, if you believe that nothing has, or will, change. Perhaps you should spend a few minutes reviewing your actions, and whether they have produced a different outcome on this occasion from previous occasions."

Dr Burke exited again.

"Is Castle still here?" were the first words from Kate's mouth, much to Dr Burke's surprise.

"He is."

"I want to see him."

"I do not think that is advisable at present," he said, just as he had done to Rick.

"Why not?" she snapped.

"Because you are angry, and highly emotional. That is rarely a good foundation for a discussion." Dr Burke gazed at Kate. "Have you considered our discussion of a few moments ago?"

"Yeah."

"Mm?"

"I see what you mean. But…I can't process it. It's too big, too soon." She stopped. "Just like it must have been for Castle. But he's had – he took days to think about it and decide what to do and I feel like I have to deal with it right now before it festers."

"You may take as much time as you need to, in order to work through your own thoughts and feelings. It would be better to take that time than make an immediate decision which may not be correct."

Kate was clearly turning that thought over. It appeared to Dr Burke that the necessity for her to make immediate decisions in tense situations in her professional life had influenced her thinking now. Delicate matters of psychiatry and psychology, however, required to be dealt with differently, and certainly without making immediate decisions.

"Okay," she said. "But I still want to see Castle now. He…I need to tell him I need some time…oh."

"What is it?"

"I need to think. If I say that he'll just think I'm going to go off-grid for months again and that's not what I mean." She looked up for the first time. "Will you ask him to wait a few minutes? And then come back and help me work this out?"

"Of course," Dr Burke said soothingly. "I shall return in a moment."

After he had closed the door to Kate's room, he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. From her original reaction, he had anticipated much more resistance, and indeed had expected her to leave. Perhaps the whole situation would be able to be resolved without excessive anguish.

"Rick."

"Yeah?" Rick did not appear any happier, which was unsurprising. "I guess she doesn't want to see me."

"Kate has asked if you will wait here for a few moments, while she considers some matters with me. Are you prepared to do so?"

"Yes," Rick gulped. "But… she doesn't want to see me?"

"Recall what I said to you."

"A fight now won't help."

"In essence, yes. I have said the same to Kate. I consider it hopeful – no more than that," Dr Burke added as Rick's face lit up – "that Kate has not left already. Possess yourself of patience, and try to put yourself in her position, as she must try to appreciate yours."

"Okay," he said dispiritedly.

"I shall return as soon as I may."

Dr Burke crossed the corridor once more, and hoped that there would not be a track worn in the carpet by the end of the session. He had, being well-organised, warned his wife that he would not be home for dinner. He merely hoped that he would not miss the last train to Westchester. He disliked staying in hotels.

"Will he wait?" Kate asked, even before Dr Burke had shut the door.

"Yes."

"Okay." She looked unutterably relieved. Dr Burke did not comment on the conclusions that he could draw from her expression. "I think I get what he was trying to do. Keep me from getting…um…hurt…again." She gazed bleakly into space. "I can't even say it."

"Do not try. We have enough with which to contend today. That issue will wait for another time."

"It was so much worse without Castle," Kate muttered. Dr Burke considered very strongly that she should have mentioned that much earlier, but preserved a calm visage. She focused on him. "I need time to get my head around this. I get what you've said, but I can't deal with it in five minutes. It's too big. If I think about it any more now I'll explode." Her eyes were large and liquid. Dr Burke inferred that Kate was restraining tears.

"That is perfectly understandable," he reassured. "What do you wish to discuss, then?"

"After…when I was in the hospital. Castle came to see me. I think he'd come every day." She swallowed dryly, scratching in breath. "I couldn't deal with it. With him. I knew what he'd said but I hadn't been able to ditch my boyfriend yet and every time I saw Castle I couldn't face seeing it in his eyes when I couldn't do anything right. I could barely sit up," she added painfully.

"Mmm?" Dr Burke hummed sympathetically.

"So he asked me outright what I remembered, and I lied. You _know_ this. And then he said _we'll talk tomorrow_ and I said did he mind if we didn't. I said I just needed a little bit of time and I'd call him." Her face crumpled, and tears traced down her cheeks. "And then I ran away to the cabin and didn't call anyone for three months. It nearly broke us. It should have broken us but he put up with it and came back and I didn't realise how much I needed him there till he walked away again and I can't let that happen." She sniffed, mopped her face and blew her nose, red-eyed. "So I can't say I need time. Because he'll think I'm running away again." She gulped back more tears. "But I do need time. I need to think."

"About what do you wish to think?"

"How I feel now I know why he did it."

"Mm. Kate" – she looked up at the use of her name – "would you allow me to tell Rick this? And while I do so, I would like you to consider what you have just said, and the unspoken assumptions underlying your concern."

She nodded, damply. "You tell him. I can't. I don't know what to say."

Dr Burke took a moment outside the room to structure his thoughts. He could not tell Kate that it was clear, in every word of their exchange, that she had already managed to, or would very shortly, forgive Rick, which in turn implied that she had understood their equivalency. However, he needed to find a way to explain to Rick that Kate would, most likely, need a few days to understand her position, which would not also cause Rick significant further distress.

He took a few breaths, and composed himself.

"Rick," he began. Rick's head was down. He seemed utterly depressed. "Kate wishes me to explain something to you."

"She doesn't want to see me."

"Not yet, but she has not asked you to leave, either. However, she is still processing her thoughts." Rick winced. "She does not want you to be hurt by her request for time to consider the situation. Therefore, instead of choosing words which she is already aware will awaken bad memories and will create the wrong impression, she has asked me to talk to you."

"Uh?"

"Kate has explained to me how her behaviour last summer caused you severe distress. She does not want to make the same mistake again, now. However, she is not in a position, this evening, to choose her words carefully. Therefore, I mediate."

"She wants _time_," Rick said bitterly. "What is it this time? Three months? A year? Till the end of the world?"

"Did you not hear me? She does not want to hurt you." Dr Burke's tone brought Rick's scowling head up. "If you do not wish to wait longer, you have only to say. No-one will stop you leaving if that is your desire."

"It's just like last time."

"Except that Kate is _trying_" – Dr Burke placed heavy emphasis on that word – "to alter that dynamic." He reverted to his plan. "You took, by my calculation, almost six days to consider your position on discovering Kate's lie, before following her. Kate has not yet had sixty minutes to consider yours." Heavy silence fell.

"I'm not being fair. That's what you mean."

"Fairness has no place in this discussion. Reasonableness, however, does. As I said, Kate has not asked for you to leave. I suggest that that is more hopeful than you believe. She has also stated that she does not want to use the words which she used last summer, because she does not want you to believe that her next action will be to flee Manhattan." Dr Burke waited expectantly. Rick remained stolidly silent, though a frown of severe concentration creased his brow. "Please consider what that might mean. I shall go back to Kate, while you do."

As Dr Burke set his hand to the door, Rick gasped. "If she doesn't want me to think that, then… she isn't going to walk away. She wants me to know that she'll be here. We can fix it. I can fix this. She can fix it."

"Potentially. I would not try to move too quickly."

"I can wait. I'll be here. Waiting," Rick added, and smiled for the first time in the session. "Tell her I won't go till she asks me to, or we finish."

"I shall do. Be counselled that she is unlikely to wish to see you tonight, but she may well wish to continue this shuttle mediation."

"I get it."

As Dr Burke exited, Castle considered his options. They still weren't very good, but then, he'd known that right from the moment he remembered the file.

He'd hurt her, and for most of this session it had seemed like they were finally broken: just like he'd thought they were when he'd discovered her lie. She wouldn't see him now, and there was an indeterminate period of the future when he fully expected she wouldn't see him. He'd taken six days. She…well, a week would be the minimum, Castle thought. Beckett wasn't known for her speed of forgiveness. But he owed her the same time he'd taken.

On the other hand, much as he wanted Beckett to see him so that he could draw her into his embrace and hold her close, Dr Burke's presence be damned, he was heartened by her attempt to change the previous summer's dynamic. If she didn't want him to think she was running, then obviously she wasn't going to run.

And if she wasn't running, there was hope.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers. _


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Alone in Dr Burke's calmingly blue-toned treatment room, Beckett contemplated the mess her head was in. She was utterly devastated to find that Castle had had evidence and not given it to her. She supposed, miserably, that she'd better work out which meant more: that there was evidence, or that he'd lied by omission.

Oh. In her fury, she'd yelled _I don't care about the evidence. I care that you lied!_

Oh.

Truth in anger. It wasn't the case. It was Castle. Oh. She thought about her new-found knowledge that there was evidence, but for the first time since she had joined the Academy, there wasn't the instant, clawing desire to get out there and read it, chase it down and bury herself under its pages. That didn't mean she didn't want to know. She did. Just – she didn't feel the driving compulsion to leave right now: tear Castle's loft apart to find the file and inter herself in the case once more.

Dr Burke had asked her what her priorities were, in summary, and she'd said – she wanted to be fixed, she wanted Castle, and she wanted the case solved. In that order.

Her whole world was shifting under her feet, suddenly. Without the obsession with the case… she didn't know where she stood.

_With Castle_, a little voice said. But he had lied. Yeah. Just like she had lied, and for the same underlying reason, identified with pinpoint accuracy by Dr Burke: trying to save each other pain. Well, now she knew how that had worked out.

Badly.

If he'd been – and of course he would have been – as devastated as she was, then she was astounded that he'd ever come after her, even if all he'd wanted was to unleash his rage and pain and walk away for good. If she hadn't been ill and half-delirious… Anyway, she certainly knew exactly how Castle had felt, because right now she felt just the same. She breathed deeply, blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes, breathed slowly, in and out, until she'd lost the first layer of pain and rage. It wasn't easy.

Now what? Well, she was still angry. She still had PTSD. She was, now she wasn't surfing the tide of all-consuming fury, shaking and tired; empty, exhausted. She had no idea what to say to Castle that wouldn't spill out all her anger and lead them straight back to another shattering fight, which didn't sit well with her other wish that she could just never know he'd lied to her and be curled up close and safe in his arms.

"Kate?" She looked up at Dr Burke. "Rick is content to stay until the session is completed or you ask for him to leave."

Embarrassingly, she sniffed damply, and forced back yet more completely unwarranted tears. "Thanks," she managed.

"What would you prefer to do? We may continue, or we may stop and continue tomorrow. I have a free appointment." Dr Burke always had a free appointment, in case of precisely these types of situations.

"I don't know. I'm so angry with him but I want him here too, but if he was I'd be angry at him and then we'd just fight because I think he's angry at me too."

"Then it is as well that Rick is not present."

"I don't know what I want," Kate sniffed.

Dr Burke regarded her sympathetically. "That is not surprising. You have had a shock, and realised some initially uncomfortable truths. I am inclined to recommend that you sleep on all these matters, and return tomorrow. I suspect that you are tired."

She nodded. "I want to see Castle," she pushed out. "But I'll say something wrong." Yet again, Dr Burke waited. It was most necessary, in his profession, to have considerable patience. "I don't want to make this any worse."

"Mmm?" Dr Burke wondered if Kate would consider the obvious half-way house, to use a slang expression, and whether he should gently lead her to that point.

"If I could see him and not say anything," she said to herself. "Talking never works for me." Dr Burke thought that if Kate would actually think before she spoke – in a non-professional capacity: he was quite certain that her professional discussions were extremely carefully considered – then talking might be more successful.

"What does 'work for you'," he asked. It was as close as he considered he was able to go to steer Kate correctly. It was necessary that she established the path that might satisfy her conflicting considerations. Dr Burke, however, wished strongly that he could simply tell her the most effective action to take, since he – on the evidence of both parties so far – was not convinced that she would reach a correct, or indeed any, conclusion.

Kate startled. "Huh?"

"What form of communication is most effective for you?"

"Not _talking_," she said bitterly, and sniffed.

"I believe that has been established," Dr Burke said aridly. "However, I did not ask what was ineffective. I asked you to define which form of communication is effective."

Kate's sniff conveyed deep displeasure at his tone, which was, of course, the effect that he had wished to produce. Unfortunately, it was not matched by her words, which were notably absent. Dr Burke did not sigh, although he wanted to do so, and returned to utilising his almost-infinite reserves of patience, of which he could, for the first time in many years of practice, see an end. The paper on the treatment of gunshot trauma was really most interesting.

"Actions," cut through Dr Burke's concentration. He was tempted to emit a hallelujah, but, naturally, refrained.

"Actions?" he queried.

"Like when I went to the bookstore. I felt better because I'd _done_ something."

"What do you conclude?" asked Dr Burke.

"That I could…um…give him a hug and not say anything. Or nothing important." She stared at the floor. "I don't know what to say right now anyway." Her gaze lifted to Dr Burke's calm face. "Will you explain to him?"

"I shall. Allow me a few moments."

"Sure."

Kate did not sound sure at all, but, since she had reached a sensible conclusion, Dr Burke did not point that out. It would achieve nothing to shake her already-limited confidence, and he was moderately certain that Rick would not object.

* * *

"Rick, Kate would like to see you."

Rick bounced to his feet and was halfway to the door before Dr Burke could take a breath.

"Please wait for a moment while I explain." He stopped, although Dr Burke had an errant vision of Rick quivering, much like Tigger, ready to bounce further with no notice.

"Yeah?"

"For this evening, Kate does not wish to talk, being concerned that any words she uses could be poorly chosen or misunderstood. I consider that this is sensible given the high emotions and difficult conversations that have occurred." Rick deflated. "She has therefore decided that it would be best to – I quote – 'give him a hug, and not say anything'."

"Uh? Hug? Beckett? _Voluntarily_?"

"She has said so."

"Wow. Can I go now?"

"Yes," Dr Burke allowed, wearied by the session and Rick's instant enthusiasm. Of course that was a major point of progress, and one which Dr Burke had not anticipated would be reached in that session, but Dr Burke would have liked to see Rick considering the position, even for a few seconds, before dashing off to Kate. He, Dr Burke, would need to remind Rick that he had wished to – my goodness, Dr Burke thought. Rick had paused, frowning.

"Am I just running straight back because she's thrown me the smallest possible bone?" he asked. "She won't talk, but she wants a hug. I'm not a stuffed toy."

"That is for you to evaluate. You may do so now, or at a future session."

"Now." Rick's lips had tightened. "If I don't, it'll be harder next time." He sat down again, forehead creased in concentration. "Okay," he said, after a few minutes. "I'm happy."

"Would you like to inform me of your reasoning?"

"Oh, because everything that's happened in the last hour is her trying not to hurt me. And she's already forgiven me even if she doesn't know it, because if she hadn't she wouldn't want to see me and she certainly wouldn't care if she hurt my feelings or not. So if she's trying, I should try too." Rick delivered his conclusions in a casual tone which made it seem like Dr Burke should already have known that. He had, but the tone did not impress him.

"I see."

"Yeah, I get it. You had it all worked out an hour ago, but I needed to do it for myself."

"Indeed. Otherwise, you would be at risk of falling into bad habits."

"I think we've got enough of those."

"Indeed." Dr Burke produced a thin smile. He would be only too glad if Rick and Kate did not produce any further issues. "Let us go."

Rick exited the room with haste, and was already opening the door to the other room before Dr Burke had fully left the first room. He reached the door just in time to see Rick swoop Kate up and envelop her in a bear-like hug. It would not have been the action that he would have recommended; but, on the other hand, it had worked. Kate certainly was not objecting.

Castle hadn't actually allowed thought to interfere with instinct from the moment he'd opened the treatment room's door. Beckett was, once more, small, slumped and pallid, and he was sure that she was utterly exhausted. He simply picked her up and wrapped her in, where she belonged. "C'mere," he murmured. "No talking." Her arms caught around his middle, and her head tucked into his shoulder, trying, painfully tiredly, to hug him in her turn.

"I don't want to talk," she whispered. "I have to think, but not now. I just needed you here."

"Talking will wait, as long as we get there sometime. Not tonight, not now. Just stay here. We can fix this."

Dr Burke quietly sat down, and waited for his pair of oblivious patients to remember that they were in his treatment room, not one of their own homes. After a moment or two, in which memory was not the defining attribute of either patient, he coughed.

"I believe we are finished for this evening," he said. Kate coloured. Rick did not, and further did not remove his arms from around Kate. "Kate, please make your next appointment for the earliest time available. Rick, you need not make a further individual appointment. I shall contact you when a joint appointment is appropriate."

"Okay," they both said. "Good night."

Dr Burke watched them go with some relief, and then hurried to close the office and catch his train.

* * *

"I'm hungry," Castle said. "Do you want to get some dinner? Remy's? I'd really love a cheeseburger and fries right now."

"No, thanks. I just want to go home." Castle flicked her a searching glance, and noted that her pallor hadn't lifted.

"Tired?" he asked, in default of _why don't you want to have dinner with me_, which would only provoke the trouble she'd spent the last hour and a half avoiding.

"Yeah." She yawned, which rather proved it.

"Okay. Let's get you home."

Castle whistled down a taxi, and put both of them in it, ignoring safety and seat belts to sling an arm round Beckett and keep her tucked in. Oddly, he felt that if he didn't, she'd drift away into a small, dark nightmare. He had no confidence at all that she wouldn't unleash the anger he was sure that she still held, if either of them said anything. She'd been right to forbid talking, hard as it was for him; she'd also been right, he thought, to ask for the physical contact. He petted her shoulder as the taxi moved through the streets, and when her head fell to lean on him, didn't comment or object. He noticed with some surprise that it was after eight p.m., and took a better grip of her shoulder to hold her safe.

When they arrived, he walked her all the way to her apartment, and waited till she opened the door. Abruptly, astonishingly, she turned around, hugged him, and only then went inside. He looked slightly blankly at the doorway, poked his head through, and called, "Night, Beckett." He didn't feel that _till tomorrow _would be accurate, and he certainly wasn't intending to stay. He felt very strongly that they needed to be apart, before one of them did something else dumb.

"G'night," yawned back at him. He shut her door, himself on the outside, and left, considerably happier than any time in the last thirty-six hours.

* * *

Beckett had intended to think before sleeping, but she was too tired to do more than wash and collapse into bed: out cold before she knew it. Her sleep was heavy to the point of coma, but her nightmares left her almost as exhausted when she finally woke as she had been when she fell into bed.

She struggled through making and drinking her first cup of coffee, wrapped in a heavy robe to stay warm, then made an appointment with Dr Burke for the following day. And then she took her second cup of coffee and curled back up in bed, which was warm and safe and didn't require anything from her. She'd need all her limited stamina for the thinking that she needed to do.

The caffeine having kicked her brain into something approximating life, Beckett arranged her pillows behind her so she was sitting up – if she lay down, she'd fall asleep again – and tried to unpick the previous evening. Oddly, her first thoughts weren't about the information on the case, or even that Castle had lied to her, but about how she'd felt when he charged in and swept her up and into him.

She'd felt forgiven.

And now, there was something missing: an empty space where the seething magma pool of her fury used to be; always raging at the crime that took her mother; an endless fuel for her focus on solving every murder that came her way; a deep and abiding anger.

Now, it was gone, only a cold, vacant space within her. She clutched her coffee, desperate for its encouraging warmth on her palms, and wondered whether, rage burnt out, she could ever be again the cop she had been. If she still wasn't tearing Castle's loft apart to find the file, still didn't feel the desperate, frantic _need_ to solve the case… would she ever feel it, as she had used to, for another case? She didn't know what she'd do if she couldn't be that good a detective again. The dregs of the coffee sloshed around the cup as it wobbled.

She put the cup aside, and curled down into her quilt and pillows, hunting for warmth, hoping without any expectations for confidence. Today, she had none.

Her phone rang, with an unknown number.

"Beckett?" she said, automatically but uncertainly.

"Detective Beckett," answered the familiar but unwelcome tones of Captain Gates.

Beckett stared at the phone as if it were a tarantula. "Uh…?" She recovered herself. "Uh, sir?"

"You have been on medical leave for a month. I felt that I should inquire." It sounded very much as if Gates would have preferred not to have to undertake an action so close to indicating concern. Beckett would certainly have preferred less concern, as in none whatsoever, and therefore no contact whatsoever. "I do not wish to know any details."

That was lucky, since Beckett hadn't been intending to give any.

"However, I trust that you are recovering and will be able to return to duty in due course."

Gates didn't sound as if that was the best news she would ever receive.

"Yes, sir."

"You sound better. Continue to improve. I will contact you again to assess your progress in a few days. Goodbye."

"Sir," Beckett said to a cut call. She continued to stare at her phone for some moments, in case anything else horrifying happened.

* * *

In her office at the Twelfth Precinct, Captain Gates regarded her phone with satisfaction. Detective Beckett had sounded, if not fully recovered, certainly not as if she ought to be in a hospital. Perhaps her next action should be to speak to Mr Castle. Gates's mouth twisted. Mr Castle should not be allowed in her precinct. Unfortunately she had little choice in the matter. Unless Gates missed her guess, which was improbable, tending to impossible; if barred while Detective Beckett returned, Mr Castle would pull strings. While Gates was impervious to string-pulling, she would be unable to refuse a direct order from the top of 1PP. Besides which, Mr Castle was good for Detective Beckett, which was good for Gates's precinct. She decided against contacting him. Instead, she surveyed the bullpen.

"Detectives Ryan and Esposito!" They jumped to her command. "My office." She took no notice of the panicked looks that passed between them, and didn't invite them to stand at ease. "Shut the door." Ryan did. Gates was sure that he would rather have run out of it. She regarded them both over her glasses and down her nose. "I wish to inform you that Detective Beckett is recovering, but will not return for some time yet."

Gates watched them closely. Ryan sagged with relief. Esposito almost smiled.

"So can we call her?" asked Ryan. They both gazed hopefully at Gates, like a pair of puppies hoping for a treat.

"Tell me, which part of _medical leave_ did you fail to understand? And which part of _you will not contact Detective Beckett about any precinct matters or cases until she returns to work_ was unclear? I did not use any words which would not be understood by a first-grader, therefore I expect you to have understood. I assume that you are smarter than a first-grader." Gates's tone indicated her doubt of the truth of the assumption. "For the record, you may not contact her. If she contacts you, you may answer, but if you so much as hint at any matter relating to the precinct or the job, you will be suspended." Gates glared. Her detectives cowered. "Is that clearly understood?"

"Yessir," they squeaked out.

"Sir," said Esposito. Gates gave him a coldly impassive face. "Sir, Beckett needs to know we've got her back. You ordering us not to call her means she doesn't know that."

"She'll get better faster if she knows we're there for her," Ryan added. "We're her team, even if she's sick."

"Are you?"

"Yes, sir. We are." Esposito swallowed. "Whatever you think."

"I see you are as insubordinate as Detective Beckett. It is not an example I recommend that you follow, if you wish to remain in my precinct."

Privately, Gates had been wondering if either detective would make the point. It appeared that both of them had, which was pleasing. A lengthy absence, even on medical grounds, could quickly damage teams.

"Sir." It was not, Gates noted, an apology.

"You may not." Their faces fell ludicrously fast. "I shall convey your sentiments myself." She glared. "Dismissed." They dragged out, clearly dissatisfied. Gates, however, was perfectly satisfied. Her team was intact, and her ability to control her precinct was undamaged. She would contact Beckett in a few days, to ensure that matters continued to progress properly. In the meantime, a text to her indicating that her team wished her a rapid recovery would suffice.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests who can't be thanked directly._

_It looks like reviews are delayed - so answers will also be delayed. Everyone who can be answered will be, but not until FanFiction decides to allow me to do so._

_Just because... (one) I have a Pornado entry ready for the weekend of 11 August, as if any of you needed an excuse to read Caskett sexy-fluff, and (two) my original novel, Death in Focus (SR Garrae), is available on Amazon. As we approach the publication of a sequel, I feel the need to suggest that you should all read it._


	23. Chapter 23

**This chapter covers some rather mild M territory, as will the rest of this story.**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

Following the call from Gates, Beckett, still quivering from the shock, made herself another coffee, with extra coffee, and considered whether there was chocolate, or alternatively ice cream, despite it being barely ten-thirty. There was neither, which was unfortunate. Instead, she showered, dressed, and put on her usual make-up – and then, instead of thinking, went out to the store to get some necessities of life. Once she'd got the chocolate and ice cream, she also put some staples and some ingredients, covering a salad for lunch and a pleasant dinner, in her cart, and then returned, feeling that some normality had been established.

It took her several minutes and about a quarter of the first chocolate bar to realise that she wasn't completely exhausted by her excursion. She finished the chocolate with some satisfaction, then, not _entirely _to delay the thinking that she knew she had to do, made a marinade for the pork she would have that evening, cubed the meat and immersed it in the mixture. Then she had lunch. Then she read a book for a while, and then had dinner.

Finally, she sat on her couch with even more coffee, which was undoubtedly bad for her, but she felt strongly that however bad this much coffee would be, not having coffee to hand would be worse.

Surprisingly, she felt less empty. Somehow, however unwelcome it had been, Gates's call had reassured her that there was a place for her at the precinct, as had the later, chilly, text. She could park whether she could ever be the cop she had been until she had a case to solve. Worrying about it now wasn't going to improve anything. She could, she supposed, worry about it with Dr Burke, where worries belonged, and rammed it back into its prison, where, however much it coiled and roiled in her gut, she could ignore it. There were bigger issues with which to deal, before she ever found out if that one would be a problem.

So. Castle. She made an unhappy noise into her silent apartment. She was still upset. Not furious, barely even angry, but upset. Somehow, seeing the equivalence between her anger and pain and his; the reasons for her actions, and for his; had settled her anger. Sure, it had also taken her to nightmare-ridden sleep: in every roiling dream she'd found that Castle was gone, and she was left alone with only her anger and regrets: her worst nightmare come true.

But she was still upset. She sipped her coffee, and tried to work out why. He'd lied, she'd lied. She'd run. He'd run, and then come back. She'd run…and intended to stay gone for ever. Which would have been what? Maybe another week, or a couple of weeks? She might have survived.

She was, she realised, still upset because she'd been forced to face up to the fact that she'd quietly have died, up there in Titusville – and she hadn't cared. She hadn't…probably hadn't…meant to, but if Castle hadn't been there, the flu would most likely have done it for her. No-one would have known, until…until her father next went to the cabin, or reported her missing.

She could have died.

She already _had_ died – and the memory took her, hard and fast and crippling.

She resurfaced, shuddering, close to tears and chilled to the bone. Without thinking, she dialled Castle.

"Beckett?" he queried. "I didn't expect" –

"I had an episode," she blurted out.

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

Castle didn't even have to think. He flew out of the door, grabbed a cab, and was at Beckett's apartment, rapping on the door, in a time that owed much to the size of the tip he'd promised the driver.

"You're here," she whispered into his chest. "I…just be here."

"Sure I'm here," Castle said comfortably. "I got you." He was quite sure that he hadn't simply jumped to her call – because if he'd had to bet on it, he'd have bet that he wouldn't hear from her for a week. But she'd called him. Not Dr Burke, not her father, and not tried to deal with it alone. She also hadn't fled Manhattan; all of which was very positive.

"I…now I know how you felt. I just wanted not to hurt you and I knew you would be if I said I didn't want to remember but it was never about what you said. I just can't get past that day." She sniffed hard. "I'm still having episodes and I can't separate any of it."

Castle moved them to the couch and cuddled her in. "It's okay. We both screwed up. It wouldn't have been the way I'd have chosen to find out, but…now we know how much we can hurt each other, maybe we'll be careful not to do it again?"

"Yeah. I guess, but…what about what you said? Because I still need to forget that day or get past it but" –

"So I'll say it again. I love you. You don't have to remember the first one because _this_ is the first one." He kissed her, first softly, and then much deeper. "This is what you'll remember. You and me, here, making it work. We've got another chance."

"I love you too," she sniffed into his shirt. "But" –

"Nope. No buts. Kiss me, Kate."

"Taming of the Shrew," she said, damply.

"You're not a shrew." He kissed her, since she hadn't kissed him. "You're mine." Another kiss. "I'm yours, too. So come here, where you belong." He hoisted her into his lap, and wrapped her in closely. She nestled in, and rested her head on his shoulder, her hand curling around his middle.

"Mine…" she breathed, and pulled his head to hers.

She traced his lips, nudging at the seam and inviting him to open to her, her hand coming up from waist to span his nape, fingers twining into his hair, matched by his own digits sliding into hers. He brought her closer, careful – she was still so very thin – but inexorable, tight against his chest and as close as he could have her, his other hand covering her back and the juts of her vertebrae. Too thin, far, far too thin – but not dead. He leaned into the kiss, turning it harder, a frantic edge of proof that she wasn't dead, she wasn't running any more, that _they_ were together. Maybe not yet fixed, but on the right path at last.

He took her mouth with his: bringing all his long delayed desire to his kiss, sure that this time he wouldn't need to be so cautious, that she wasn't still sick, that there were no more secrets and lies between them. She responded instantly, as desperate as he was to show she was all in, giving him his own with interest. Tongues duelled, lips fought, mouths marauded: he moved from lips to cheek to ear and gave a wicked little lick; she retaliated with a tiny nip and brought a hand down to attack his shirt buttons. He slid his hand so her t-shirt rose up and set palm to the skin of her back, satin-smooth and oh-so-strokable – he didn't even try to resist: gliding up and down, soothing away the tiny tensions, still kissing her as though their lives depended upon it. Her hand slid on to his chest, his shirt now fully opened, and where she touched, it sparked.

She stopped, and drew back a little, searching his face: he didn't know for what she was hunting, but she found it, leaning forward again. Her eyes were a little hazy, softer than he thought he'd ever seen them, her touch delicate as she cupped his jaw, stroked over the shaved chin, now beginning to shadow as the evening wore on.

"I can't do it without you," she murmured. "I didn't realise till you weren't there. I didn't _want_ to do it, or try, or anything. You saved me."

He stayed still, and quiet, and didn't say _don't ever do it again, don't ever tell me again you didn't want to live, you're not the only one who doesn't want to do it without the other_. But he would never have taken that route. He had his daughter, and mother, and friends – or friendly rivals – and a secure career. Beckett…well. She thought her career, the be-all and end-all of her life, was gone. Her relationship with her father was…uncertain. He'd never got to the bottom – or even the top – of why Jim had come to him to ask him to persuade Beckett to stop, rather than trying it himself.

And, of course, he'd gone too: devastated by her lie and intending to make an end: their partnership broken.

"I would have died up there. I" – she gulped – "I might not have meant to, but…. I wouldn't have cared. I didn't care." She hid her face in his chest: and he could sense the damp trail along her cheek. "I didn't know how much I needed you until you weren't there and it was my own fault…"

Castle snuggled her in, and petted. "I made mistakes too. We both had reasons – reasons that we each thought were good enough. We've come out better than we were. We don't have to like it…but we're not going to do it again. No more secrets, no more lies." He consciously infused humour into his voice. "And no more running off to the boonies or to Vegas."

"Vegas?"

Ah. She hadn't known that, had she?

"I spent the weekend after… in Vegas." He felt her stiffening. "I won big. I didn't want to see anyone or do anything else; I even switched off my phone straight after" – he didn't need to specify after what – "so I didn't have to talk to anyone, and then I didn't want to answer anything. Though… I wanted you to be jealous, okay? So this flight attendant came on to me and I would have shoved her under your nose but you weren't there and then Gates hauled me in…anyway, I didn't even kiss her cheek. But she did get to drive my Ferrari."

"She drove your _Ferrari_? I should shoot you for that alone. You've never let me drive it," Beckett growled.

"When you're better, you can drive it. Once." Castle heard Beckett's normal dry, sardonic tone with considerable relief.

"More than once."

"Nope. Mine. You never let me drive."

"Official unit. You don't get to drive it." Every word was recovering Beckett-ness, though Castle would have bet on her eyes still brimming.

"That's not fair."

"That's life." She looked up, and yes, he'd been right, liquid eyes and tear stains, but she was smiling in her old way.

"Still not fair," he pouted, and she rolled her eyes at him just like always.

And then she kissed him again, not just like always but how he hoped that always would turn out to be from now on. No hesitation, no uncertainty, and no limits. She simply invaded, conquered without a pause: hands gripping as if she'd never let him go, mouth and tongue acquiring an edge of desperation that he didn't want to sense. He gave back, exploring once more, easing her into the knowledge that he was there, that he'd always be there, that he was as all in as she was.

The kiss became harder, deeper, possessive on both sides; Castle's shirt was pushed from his shoulders; he shrugged it off and flicked Beckett's silky t-shirt over her head; then dived back into her mouth with skin pressing against skin, her soft cotton bra the only barrier. His hands began to roam more widely, skating downwards to her hip, back up, around to flirt with the side of the bra, the taut covering of too-prominent ribs. The bra wasn't tight; his fingers slipping under the band proved that; another glide downwards revealed that the waistband of her jeans was still frighteningly loose.

But then she slipped a hand across his chest and teased at his nipple and that stopped Castle thinking in one instant. The looseness of her bra became an instant advantage as he sneaked beneath it and began to stroke the small curve, but shortly he unclasped the hooks. He needed to touch more: slide and glide and play; bring her up and send her flying; all his, all in. Her nails traced downward, finding his midriff, stopping at his belt. He didn't want her to stop, already straining, enlarged: fighting for control and barely winning.

His belt opened, and he lifted off her mouth.

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes_," she gritted out, and moved her fingers in an extremely unsubtle manner.

"Then let's take this somewhere more comfortable." He slid an arm under her knees and simply stood up. She squeaked in surprise, and then slung her own arms around his neck and let him carry her to the bedroom, nuzzling her nose into his neck and breathing him in. He sat on the bed, and laid her down as gently as if she were crystal, ran eyes up and down her thin form and found her beautiful regardless. He dipped, and kissed the tip of her nose, then rose again and undid her jeans, sliding them away to find simple cotton panties, which didn't quite match the bra. He slid the unnecessary bra away.

"You're beautiful," he said, his whole heart undoubtedly in his eyes.

Beckett blushed and wriggled. "I'm skeletal."

"Yeah, but even if you're skeletal – which you won't be for long – you're my skeleton."

He moved her over, tutted theatrically when she reached for him, and stripped off his shoes, pants and socks. She watched every move as carefully as when they were on a stakeout, and when he joined her on the bed, slid arms around him and pressed herself close to kiss him. He cuddled her in, keeping her warm: she was already cooler. He reached for the covers, and swept them both underneath, curling an arm under her neck, the other hand resting gently on her ass, only enough force to hold her against him, face to face, chest to chest: learning the contours of her body against his, the space where he would fit, the curves of her torso and the long lines of her legs next to his.

Her leg came up to slide over his, to open and let her rub against him: careful, delicate, slow: a complete change from only moments ago. Delicate and slow, but not, he thought, easy. They'd never been easy. Now, perhaps, they could be. He pulled her closer, stroking, shifting the soft cotton, and she gave a small, pleased noise and met his lips again. Her hands and fingers wandered across his back and down, not reaching as far as she evidently would have liked, but he didn't want to stop kissing her and he wasn't inclined to let her slide downward.

"Stay here," he murmured into her mouth, "stay here where I can kiss you."

Beckett hadn't been planning to go anywhere. The closer she was to Castle, the warmer, safer, and all-around better she felt. Kisses helped. The heat and hardness of his body against hers also helped, and while she wasn't necessarily fit for…er…athletic exertion, she thought that she was certainly fit for a rather gentler lovemaking. Maybe that wasn't wrong: limiting the explosive heat to a simmer, taking it slowly and learning about each other. Headstrong decisions in the heat of the moment hadn't exactly worked well for them so far. She moved nearer: touching from shoulders to toes, as close as she could get without crawling under his skin.

When he slid her panties back and forth, she squirmed with the delicious friction; as he stroked over the fabric and down between her legs she emitted a half-whine of needy desire; when his fingers began to explore more directly, pushing aside the cotton and touching hot, slick flesh, the whine became a gasp and she arched into his hand. He cupped her in just the right way, with just the right pressure, and then wicked fingers matched wicked, seductive tongue, slipping and sliding and entering and stroking her; bringing her up while keeping her enclosed, until she couldn't resist any longer and gave herself up to the pleasure and to him.

"There," he said suavely. "All beautifully relaxed."

Beckett managed a contented semi-purr, and snuggled in, locking an arm around Castle's waist to ensure he didn't run off when she wasn't looking.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said easily, and tucked her closer still. "I've got you." He smiled rakishly. "You don't think I'm letting you go, do you?" Beckett merely hummed, and wriggled so that her head was comfortably pillowed on his chest and she was sprawled over him. "Definitely not. But…there is one barrier. Well, two."

"Mm?" She didn't see that there were any barriers. She was right where she wanted to be: cosy and safe and protected from her own demons.

"These" – he plucked at her panties – "and these." He tweaked his own boxers.

"You could change that," she said dreamily, perfectly happy to go along with suggestions but not inclined to make any of her own. She simply wanted to stay in this moment, in this place, with this man, and never have to come out. Castle's broad hands glided down across her ass, and took her panties down with them. His boxers followed. For a moment, there was stillness and silence: deeper breathing, but no words. She could feel him: full and hard against her, not yet moving.

And then he rolled her over and propped himself up on his elbows, interlinking his fingers with hers at her ears, eyes darkened, intent only on her; slid through her once, twice, and paused, poised, at her entrance; then took her mouth and with one slow, powerful surge forward took her body too. She arched up to the controlled passion of his thrusts, opened to him in shattering, glorious response and then ecstasy.

"Kate? Kate? Wake up, Kate!"

"Huh?"

"You…you've been out for a few minutes. I mean," he smirked, but there was a horrible anxiety beneath it, "I'm good, but…I didn't think I was that good." He examined her face. "Maybe that wasn't the best idea when you're still recovering?" Guilt infused his tones.

"It was a good idea," Beckett said firmly – well, it was intended to be firm. In fact, it quavered alarmingly, and she was completely exhausted. Her words didn't improve Castle's expression in any way. She plucked, terrifyingly feebly, at Castle's arm. "Come here. Hold me?" He obliged. "It was a great idea." He managed a smile. "Don't go away."

"I wasn't going to," he said, with a thick coating of _because you're not well_ which entirely passed Beckett by. All she now wanted to do was nestle into his embrace and sleep soundly, and he was right here. She wriggled very slightly to become comfortably situated, draped an arm across him, and was asleep in seconds.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers. _

_As far as I can tell, while I'm getting alerts, I can't answer any reviews. Again. I will answer when FF fixes itself._

_Guest who asked about the sequel to Death in Focus: Thank you, and likely end of the summer, unless it's picked up by an agent or wins a competition, in which case I have no idea. Neither is likely, though._


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Castle woke at a relatively civilised hour, and found that he was smothered in a Beckett-blanket which showed no signs of moving or being in any way detachable without some serious contortions and the risk of waking her. He hadn't actually meant to be out all night, but nobody would worry about it and Alexis, at eighteen, was old enough to be left alone. Fortunately, before he had to try extreme and spine-cracking measures, she made a tiny noise in her sleep and slithered off him, which allowed him to make himself comfortable and return to the bed before she noticed. He'd have liked to have a shower, but he could defer that for a while, with the intriguing possibility of sharing it when it did occur.

A few moments later his boredom limit had been reached. Sleeping Beckett was gorgeous but not terribly interesting, so he vacated the bed in search of his phone or a book or both, and returned, unsurprisingly, with both.

An hour later, he was still alternately reading and destroying evil pigs (with the sound off, which detracted quite considerably from the game but increased his chances of continued life by far more), with Beckett still deep in sleep beside him, nestled into his side. He could _definitely_ get on board with that, though his own bed was more comfortable and carried less chance of falling out. He pondered the chance of being able to replace Beckett's queen size with a king, without her noticing, and decided that a detective would detect the change, and then detect his role in it, and then detect him all the way to the morgue.

Finally, Beckett emitted a sleepy murmur, blinked long lashes, scrubbed at her eyes in the same way Castle remembered a small Alexis doing, stretched – and jerked into astonished life.

"Castle?"

"Yep." He set the book and phone aside.

"You stayed?"

"Yep."

"Thank you," she said, heartfelt, and pulled herself up to kiss him: open and gentle and welcoming. He wasn't slow to respond, and as she pressed closer he explored: passionate and powerful, possessive, and yet careful: seduction not conquest. He was horrifyingly aware of her fragility, after the previous evening.

"Good morning," he smiled, pulling back. "That was the best way to wake up _ever_."

Beckett's eyebrow attempted a sardonic rise, and only got halfway. Even that was contradicted by the sappy smile – he'd _never_ seen a sappy smile on Beckett, not even when they shared the dog – flirting with her mouth. He couldn't resist kissing the smile, and sliding down so that he was lying on his back with Beckett over him: he shifted a little, covered himself as he'd done, unnoticed, the night before, and she opened across him and then he wasn't quite sure what happened but she was around him and so utterly perfect that he forgot all his good intentions to be careful of her convalescence. She surely wasn't taking any care for herself. He lifted his hips to fill every last inch of her, and slipped naughty fingers between them to find the slick nub and tease until she cried out his name and broke apart around his own release.

He held her to his chest, not willing to let her slip away just yet. "You okay?" he murmured.

"Yeah." She cuddled down. "I need to take a shower…but not for a few minutes."

"I could help you with that," he insinuated, bedroom voice on full display.

"Mmm," she hummed, but it wasn't really agreement, and she wasn't taking any steps to indicate that she wanted to play some more. Castle cuddled and cossetted, content simply to have snuggly Beckett with him, and perfectly certain that until she was fully fit and back to Badass Beckett, the only pushing would be from her to him; which suited him just fine. The more she made the moves, the more it reduced his upset and anger at her lie. He stopped hard on that.

Maybe he wasn't quite fixed yet.

"I need to get up," she said, a little later on. "I'm seeing Dr Burke this afternoon." She made a face. "Ugh."

"Same ugh or different ugh?" Castle asked. There had been something in her voice… There was a silence.

"Both," arrived from the vicinity of his sternum.

Castle's stomach vacated his body. A different issue? Oh, shit. "Uh" –

"I don't wanna talk about it. Not till I know what I think."

"Okay." He managed to hide his doubt and worry, and considered, suddenly, that he should make another solo appointment. If he was still upset and angry enough to need Beckett to make more forward moves, if he could still be so easily scared every time there was a new issue… ugh. Just as she had said, ugh. He clung hard to the one indisputable truth: that Beckett was there, sleeping with him in every sense; that she had welcomed him in and wanted him to stay. She had called him, when he'd expected her to be angry and shutting him out, and she hadn't been either. That had to be worth something.

Didn't it?

* * *

After a solitary lunch, Castle having left for home on the back of some non-specific hugs and companionship, Beckett dragged her way to Dr Burke's office.

"Hello, Kate."

"Hey."

"Where would you like to begin? With your thoughts about Rick's behaviour?"

"I guess. But I'm not angry with him because I get why he did it."

Dr Burke frankly stared. That was not what he had expected. He composed himself. Really, that was a most excellent progression.

"But now I'm… I don't know, empty?"

"What do you mean by 'empty'?"

"I guess… Up until this happened I was always angry that my mom had been murdered and that was why I was so good at my job but now it's gone and I thought I'd be really angry that there was evidence out there but I'm not and I should be tearing Castle's loft apart to get it and I'm just _not_ and what if I can't be a good cop any more because I've lost the drive?"

Dr Burke paused and unpicked that lengthy sentence while Kate recovered breath.

"Let us begin with Rick's lie-by-omission. I consider that these matters are connected." Dr Burke was confident that he knew the reasons for the change. "Rick has a file of evidence in your mother's murder. Do you want to review that evidence?"

Kate's face crumpled. "I don't know. Probably. Maybe. But not doing it is letting her down and I can't bear that either. She deserves justice, just as much as anyone else."

"For whom do you normally seek justice?" Dr Burke watched Kate carefully.

"The families" – He saw realisation dawn. "Oh. You mean I feel I'd be letting my dad down."

"And?" Regrettably, not enough realisation had dawned.

"And what?"

Dr Burke let the silence draw out. Eventually, he was forced to intervene. "Please define your family."

"Dad and me." Another silence. Dr Burke wondered if he would have to inform Kate that she was seeking justice for herself. Her forehead furrowed. "Are you saying I think I'm letting myself down?"

"Do you think that?"

Kate's mouth opened on instant denial – and shut again. Dr Burke did not disturb her cogitations, instead turning to a paper on the latest trials of anti-depressant drugs. He anticipated that Kate would ponder her realisation for some time.

He was not wrong. Kate was silent for at least ten minutes. Her silence did not worry Dr Burke, as she was, from the changes in her expression, clearly undertaking a considerable amount of focused thought. Eventually, she looked up.

"You're saying that I worked that hard because otherwise I felt I was letting _myself_ down? But I never thought like that." Her fingers tapped on her knee. "But…maybe underneath?" More restless tapping. "But why would that stop now?"

"Has something changed?"

Kate winced. "Only…Castle walked out and I went up to Titusville and I wasn't going to come back." She shrank into herself. "I didn't care what happened. I didn't care if I" – she hitched, and gulped – "died. I probably would have if Castle hadn't come because the flu… I wouldn't have eaten at all." She blinked, hard, and reached for a Kleenex to blow her nose. "I didn't realise how much I needed him till he wasn't there."

"Only needed him?"

"I told you. I was all ready to go all in and then I got shot and how could I say anything when all I wanted to do was forget that he said he loved me because all I remembered was dying? That's why I came here in the first place: to fix that. I couldn't tell him I loved him when I wanted to forget that he'd told me. I thought if I saw you enough then I'd forget."

"Mm. Have you told Rick that you love him?"

Kate blushed. "Yes," she muttered.

"When?"

"Sort of…up at the cabin. You know that. And yesterday," she added.

"You saw Rick yesterday?"

"I had an episode. And I called him and he came."

"I see." Dr Burke postponed consideration of that matter. "So, to return to our point, what has changed?"

"I…I had to face up to the fact that I went there because I didn't care if I died because everything was gone. Castle, job, everything." She spat out the final word.

"And when did you realise this?"

"Yesterday evening." She frowned. "But that's _after_ I found it was missing."

"When was that?"

"Yesterday morning."

"So, the timeline is as follows: you and Rick had a joint session in which he confessed his hiding of vital evidence. High emotions were exchanged, but, after some thinking, you understood his actions as he understood yours, and you left together."

"And I went home. I didn't want to go for dinner with him, though he asked."

"A sensible move. Yesterday morning, you found that you no longer possessed the core of anger which, you believe, has made you an outstanding detective – I have," he said at her surprised glance, "naturally, reviewed your history – and with no immediate desire to investigate this new information."

"Yes. Even then…"

"Recall your words to Rick. You said, 'I don't care about the evidence. I care that you lied.' At that point, did you believe that to be true?"

Kate considered. "Yes."

"And now?"

"Yes. Except I do care, just not like I would have done before."

"What do you deduce from those two points?"

"Uh…I care more about Rick than dying?"

"And?"

There was a pause. "The case nearly killed me. Did kill me. And if I care more about Castle than dying…I guess I care more about him than the case."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I…don't know." She shivered. "The case was everything for so long, and then Castle came along but it was still everything…I made it still be everything, because it was the easy way out."

"What do you mean?"

"I was hiding. Just like Castle said…I was hiding from him, and the case was the easiest way, because it was always there and I always felt I had to solve it. I could be angry and that way I didn't have to..." She swallowed. "I didn't have to realise that I'd already fallen in love." She began, quite silently, to cry.

"Long before I said it…before he did." She could barely choke the words out. "I lost so much time and then it was almost too late. I waited too long. And then he came after me and if he hadn't I'd likely have died there. And I wouldn't have cared."

Dr Burke studiously did not react. He had known that for some time: ever since Rick had, quite improperly, called him from Kate's cabin. Kate might not have been actively suicidal, but she had certainly not cared whether she lived or died. It seemed that she had finally worked out her unconscious motivation.

"Do you care now?"

"I'm here," she tried to snap. "Of course I do."

"What is the reason for the change?" Dr Burke knew: he simply wanted Kate to admit it.

"Castle."

"Everything appears to return to Rick," Dr Burke observed calmly. "In chronological order, then, you have told me that you concentrated on your anger-fuelled drive to solve your mother's case in order to avoid your feelings for him; you lied because you could not bear to hurt him by telling him the truth about wishing to forget the trauma of the day of the funeral; and you did not care if you lived or died because you thought that he had left for good."

Kate managed a nod.

"Now, you have also told me that you no longer have the core of anger which you had come to rely upon; you do not wish to pursue the new evidence in your mother's case at the risk of your own life; you care far more that Rick lied than the content of the evidence; and that you now care about living."

Kate nodded again.

"Finally, you have told me that the reason for all of these matters is Rick. What do you conclude?"

"He's the most important thing," she whispered, almost to herself. Her face cleared. "He's it. Everything." She smiled: open and brilliant; staring out into some far horizon; completely unconscious of Dr Burke's now-benevolent presence. Kate had finally made her breakthrough.

"You have made an important realisation," he said kindly. "We may continue, or we may decide to stop for today, and resume joint sessions as soon as you feel that they would be appropriate."

"Next session," Kate decided.

"We can arrange that as soon as you would like."

"Okay."

"Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

"I don't think so. Thanks."

Kate left with a swing in her stride. Dr Burke allowed a moment or two for her to depart, and then went out to find out from his receptionist the details of the next joint appointment, which, it transpired, would be on Monday. He was somewhat discomforted to find that Rick had made an individual appointment, and would arrive following the next appointment.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Rick."

"Hey."

Dr Burke noted that Rick appeared concerned, but not overly stressed or emotional, and was slightly reassured.

"What would you like to discuss today?"

"Um, well, Beckett said that she had something to discuss with you and I immediately thought it was a problem for us even though we were – er – together and that was after I was pleased she was making moves because it made me less angry and upset that she lied and it doesn't feel right but I don't know why or what to do about it." Rick finally breathed. His ears were slightly pink, and he was not meeting Dr Burke's gaze. Dr Burke concluded that he and Kate had indulged in intimacy, about which Dr Burke was unconcerned.

"There appear to be two issues: one, that you feel it necessary for Kate to make positive moves towards you in order to lessen your feelings of anger and upset over her lie – which implies that you have not fully dealt with either emotion; and two, that you immediately assume that any worry which Kate requires advice upon will lead to damage to your relationship."

"I guess, yeah."

"Tell me, are you confident that Kate loves you and wishes to pursue a relationship with you?"

"What?" Rick stared, then scowled. "Of course I am. Why the hell would you ask that? Why do you think I'm here?"

"Both of your issues appear to stem from considerable insecurity about Kate: firstly that you do not fully believe that she wants you, and secondly that, if she does, the relationship is extremely fragile."

Rick opened his mouth – and shut it again, very much as Kate had. A crease developed between his eyebrows. It was clear that he was considering Dr Burke's words.

"I guess…" he said slowly, "it's because she's always backed off or run away or hidden or found someone else before. I…I was into her for so long but she kept finding these nowhere men" – Dr Burke was reminded of an old song, and had to control his face rigorously – "and going out with them instead."

"Had you told her how you felt? Or asked her on a date?"

Rick coloured. "Well…um…no."

"But presumably she had noticed that you were not dating other women?"

Rick squirmed.

"You were dating other women."

"Occasionally. Beckett wouldn't date me, and, well, there was an actress…then I asked her to go to the Hamptons but she put me off for Detective Demming so I took my ex instead and then she was pissed with me because she'd dumped the detective but it was too late. And then she found someone else and…then she got shot."

"I doubt that Kate got shot just to avoid dating you," Dr Burke said very dryly indeed.

Rick huffed out a sarcastic laugh. "No. That would be when we first met, though she'd rather have shot me." His smile dropped. "She got shot and then she lied and then ran away all summer. I get why. But…she's run away every time it's gotten complicated, and I guess I'm half-expecting her to do it again."

"Why did you date the actress?"

Rick stared. "Uh…" he said, which Dr Burke considered was not a comment which added to the sum of human knowledge. He squirmed uncomfortably again. "Looking back, sheer stupidity. Beckett had stayed after her apartment blew up but she still wouldn't get any closer and, well…I was hurt and Ellie actually wanted me. So…" Rick trailed off.

"An entirely understandable reaction. Kate did not seem to want you, so why should you not find other companionship?" Dr Burke paused. "But why, then, were you upset when she did exactly the same thing? She assumed that you were not interested, most likely because of your interlude with the actress, and entered a relationship with someone who was."

"But she had to know I was interested in her."

"Had you told her so?"

Rick gaped.

"I infer that you had not, or had not told her so since early in your acquaintance." Dr Burke was guessing, but he was reasonably certain that his patients' inability to communicate was not a new issue.

"Uh… well, no, but she's a _detective_. She had to know."

"She had to know that a multimillionaire playboy, with a history of seeing stunning, high-profile women, who was producing bestsellers every year, would be interested in an ordinary police detective from a good, but not impressive, background, with no ties of wealth or fame, for more than a short liaison?"

Dr Burke watched his words sink into Rick's mind.

"But she did know. She said she was going to go all in at Montgomery's funeral" –

"At which point, it was a year or more later, and then she was shot. Rick, please _think_ about the timeline of events."

Thinking, Dr Burke thought acerbically, would improve the lives of both his patients. If only one could write a prescription for logical thinking, to be undertaken three times a day before meals, many problems would be solved without his intervention.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Rick returned to thinking, until eventually some form of possible enlightenment might dawn. Dr Burke firmly rebuked himself for his uncharitable thought, and reflected that if only this session had taken place on a different day, his patience would have been in far greater supply.

"I see," Rick eventually said.

"Explain?"

"Right at the beginning, I asked Beckett to dinner. She turned me down. Then we got a bit closer, but then I found something on her mother's case and she wasn't happy. We patched that up, but then she didn't wanna get any closer staying at my loft, but I never actually said anything out loud, and then there was Ellie and then her detective and then my ex and her doctor – tit for tat, both ways – and then she was all ready and she _said so_, in the eulogy, and she knew I'd understand – and then she got shot and it all went to hell."

"Mm. So, after the first time, you never told her you cared deeply. She did not make any moves either. But then, there must have been indications that you were becoming closer before the funeral. You have previously mentioned an event on Valentine's Day, and a stressful experience after a killer escaped, both of which you identified as actions which Kate took which you felt – correctly, in my view – indicated an approach each time."

"So you mean that whatever happened early on, by the time she was originally ready she'd made some – subtle," Rick added bitterly, "moves, so I was more confident that she meant it."

"According to our earlier sessions, you were quite sure that she meant it. Now, she has given you far stronger proof that she wishes to have a serious relationship: you have spent considerable time together, and I infer that physical intimacy has taken place; she has told you explicitly that she loves you; and she is attending therapy specifically to ensure that both of you return to the precinct. I have no doubt that Captain Gates would allow Kate to return to duty without you, but the reverse is unlikely."

"Try impossible."

Dr Burke smiled thinly. "So why, given all these proofs, are you still uncertain of her feelings and the strength of your relationship?"

"Because we had to come to see you to be able to fix it! If it had been sound we wouldn't need you."

Dr Burke blinked, and rapidly refocused his approach. "Normally," he said, steepling his fingers before him, "a couple attends counselling after they have been together – married, or in a long term relationship similar to marriage – for some time, during which period issues have built up until they are insurmountable without assistance. In many cases, but certainly not all, that assistance allows the couple to overcome those issues and to enjoy a happier life together." He regarded Rick. "Are you hypothesising that all of those relationships have little or no foundation?"

"Erm…uh…"

"Because it is my professional experience that where counselling is successful, the relationship has generally been strong to begin with, but has, to use a vernacular term, lost its way. The parties wish to re-establish their strong relationship. It has not indicated that the relationship was necessarily fragile from the outset. Indeed, fragile or uncertain relationship may tend not to seek out counselling, as one or other party sees it as of no value. We can omit from this analysis any relationship where there is abuse. I speak only of non-abusive circumstances."

Rick goggled. Dr Burke continued to regard him calmly, and waited for Rick to absorb his meaning.

"You're saying that if Beckett didn't believe in us, she wouldn't be here."

"Yes." Dr Burke offered up silent hallelujahs as Rick finally understood his point.

"So…it might be wobbly now but this will stabilise us?"

"That is certainly the aim. Now that your misapprehension has been corrected, do you think that you will, in time, feel less uncertain?"

"Uh…" – there was a significant pause – "maybe? I mean, she must have been uncertain because she's come here, and because she's uncertain I'm uncertain, and…" Rick trailed off.

"I think," Dr Burke said, mindful of professional ethics and his commitment not to disclose to each patient the other's commentary, "that the best way to resolve that point would be in the next joint session. Kate has requested that it be on Monday, if you are available?"

"She's ready for a joint session already?"

"I believe that is what I said, yes." Dr Burke's eyes acquired a tiny twinkle. "I do not think that there would be any harm in seeing each other before then, if that were your wish, as long as you both continue in your path of leaving delicate matters to be discussed here."

"Uh…er…okay."

Dr Burke observed Rick's slight colouring with gentle, hidden amusement. He had no doubt of where Rick's next destination would be. Dr Burke, on the other hand, would be going to his quiet Westchester home, to have dinner with his wife of many years. They had, of course, had their own ups and downs over those years, but those had been resolved, and the experience had made Dr Burke a far better counsellor than he would otherwise have been; all of which he was drawing upon to treat Rick and Kate.

* * *

Beckett was contemplating a bath with lots of bubbles, more chocolate and a glass of good wine, largely to alleviate her disappointment that Castle had been out when she called round, when her door sounded with Castle's familiar pattern. Her mood instantly improved.

"Hey," she said happily, drew him in and hugged him, pushing the door shut with her foot, and then kissed him enthusiastically. Castle, oddly, was responding with an embrace that owed more to clinging than hugging, though there was no fault whatsoever to be found with his kissing. Some more enthusiastic kissing later, he had relaxed, and they had progressed to the couch, with coffee.

"I went to the loft earlier, but you were out."

"Yeah. I…um…needed to see Dr Burke."

Beckett blinked at him, and forcibly restrained herself from interrogating, contenting herself with a snuggle and an intertwining of fingers. Castle had obviously noticed, and was even more obviously debating with himself what to say.

"Talking's not usually a problem for you," Beckett said dryly. "For information, though, you don't have to if you don't want to. God knows, talking about Dr Burke is just about bottom of my things to enjoy list, right below exfoliating with a cheese grater."

Castle snickered. "What an image. Can I steal the line for Nikki?"

"Sure. It can go in the loot locker with everything else you've stolen from me for her."

He harrumphed. "Inspiration. Not theft."

Beckett snickered in her turn. "Gotcha."

"Mean. Very mean. I'm hurt."

"You look so upset. That's why you're grinning."

"This, my dear detective, is a grin as I contemplate my revenge for your meanness."

Beckett made a sceptical face at him. "No chance. I can stop anything you – _stoppit you rat_!"

"You're ticklish," Castle said smugly over Beckett's squeaks and squeals and attempts to eviscerate him with her fingernails. "And I'm not."

Beckett scowled and sulked, which seemed to her to be perfectly appropriate. Castle's arm returned to around her shoulders rather than committing felonies on her rib-cage – as far as she was concerned, tickling her was a felony worthy of committal. About that point she realised that she felt normal. As in, not exhausted, not sick, and not miserable. She contemplated. Still no core of anger, still no desire to tear Castle and his loft apart – well, not because of the case. Tickling her…that was a different matter, and deserved rending.

She became aware that Castle was silent, again, with a pensive quality, and didn't intrude on his thinking. He'd talk, or not, as he chose.

Ah. Talk.

"I went to see Dr Burke because I had an issue too. A new one."

A pit opened in Beckett's stomach. "A…new one?"

"But we agreed we'd park it till the joint session on Monday. And he said" – Castle affected Dr Burke's smooth, slightly prissy tones – "_I do not think that there would be any harm in seeing each other before then_. So here I am."

The pit refilled. If it were a serious issue with them, Castle wouldn't have come straight to her apartment and been snuggly, and Dr Burke certainly wouldn't have suggested it.

"Okay," she said. "I saw him too and we parked that till Monday, so let's leave it all till then. I don't wanna think about any of it." She wriggled slightly.

"I don't either." Castle's tone changed to a suave, sex-soaked smoothness. "I can think of several ways not to think about it." Beckett quirked an eyebrow. "We could – ulp!"

Beckett had gotten bored of his procrastination – all two sentences and half a minute of it – hauled his head down and kissed him firmly.

"We could _stop talking_," she growled, and invaded his mouth again.

Castle pulled back for an instant, which was not popular. "Whatever you want," he grinned, "because amazingly, that's what I was thinking."

"Just _stop talking_ and kiss me."

"Sure," he said mischievously, and on spotting her scowl, kissed it into absence. Kisses became more invasive: harder and possessive; hands began to wander. Castle's fingers sneaked under Beckett's top: his fingertips danced on to bare skin and sent sparks shivering through her, up and down every synapse. Sexuality suffused the space between them: shrinking by the second as Beckett was realigned into Castle's lap; he bent his head to keep her mouth and simultaneously slipped her top upward, lifted off for an instant to take the top over her head and dropped it without caring where it landed, and then returned to kissing her, pressing her against his firm chest and holding her as close as could be.

"Bedroom," Beckett breathed. Castle stood up, swept her up, and bestowed her on her bed. She propped herself up on her pillows and openly ogled as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. Mysteriously, the movement flexed his pecs in an enticing fashion, by which Beckett was perfectly pleased to be enticed. She gave a feline smile and put her hands to her belt, which riveted Castle's gaze to her buckle. His turn to stop and stare.

Very slowly, she undid the belt, popped the button, and slid the zipper down with a soft, slow, susurrus. Castle took a hypnotised step forward, and his hands met his belt and pants to undo them in unconscious imitation. Beckett slowly pushed her pants from her legs, lifting her hips to remove them. Castle growled deep in his chest, and took another step, face intent, eyes dark. He stepped out of his pants, bent down and stripped off his socks. Beckett, conveniently, hadn't been wearing any. She stretched lithely, clad only in matching, pale blue, silk underwear with a trickle of lace at the edges of the cups and the band of the panties. He sucked in air, and took the last step to the bed and to Beckett. She reached up, and brought him down to her lips.

Everywhere his hands roamed her skin, she scorched, welcoming the fire in his touch and arching up towards him for more, gripping the hard muscle of his back and rubbing against him, driving him up as he drove her. The bra fell away, and Castle fell to her breasts, playing and then sucking, palming and tweaking: a direct line from hard peaks to soft, wet core: she reached down to stroke his ass, tried to roll him to access the more significant areas easily and failed, receiving a wolfish grin and a shake of the head. She grinned back. It had been worth a try. Instead, she slipped a hand down between them, and when that failed to reach far enough, wriggled downward to Castle's instantly-choked off protest when slim, elegant fingers slipped smoothly into the slit of his boxers and found exactly what they sought. He gasped, and then grinned in that same wolfish fashion.

"I guess you found me." He kissed her hard, and then rolled to one side, drew off her panties, let her draw off his boxers, and returned his fingers to the slick heat between her legs. "I've found you, too."

"Let's find each other," she breathed, sheathed him, and curled fingers around him, guided him to her entrance, and slid so that he was just inside her.

It flicked his switch. Badass Beckett, assertively sexy, full on, full force, going for what she wanted – him. He thrust forward, took her body and her mouth, and she gasped and he groaned and they hit their rhythm without a hitch: magnificence in motion and then glorious release.

He rolled, and nestled her comfortably into his side, head over his heart, playing idly with a lock of hair.

"I feel like me again," she said, out of the blue. "Not ill and exhausted."

"Good." It seemed to be the safest answer.

"Everything's clear."

"Good?"

"Yep." She yawned widely, and snuggled in, eyelids drooping. "'M tired now. Stay?"

"Sure," he said comfortably. "Let me wash up first." She yawned again. "Maybe you should wash up first." She staggered out of bed to the bathroom, and the shower sounded. She returned in mere minutes, which was the fastest shower and tooth brushing in recorded history, fell into bed with her eyes already shutting, and wriggled down as they clunked closed.

Castle took a much slower shower, brushed his teeth, decided he didn't need to shave until the morning, and wished he had a clean pair of boxers. He slid in beside Beckett, and rapidly concluded that boxers were unnecessary. Beckett certainly hadn't found any form of nightwear to be necessary. He tucked himself into her, a hand on her hip just in case she disappeared or aliens tried to abduct her, and contemplated the position.

Beckett, it seemed, thought that she was back to normal. It certainly appeared that she was closer to normal than at any time in the last six weeks, and he could live with an awful lot of normal that involved her diving headfirst into a relationship.

He just needed to fix his own head now. He thought about how he felt, and about Dr Burke's words. He, Castle, was uncertain…but if Dr Burke thought that this process was only to cure a wobble…Captain Gates would have a conniption. He snickered at the thought. He was sure that Gates would have thought – hoped – that their counselling would take much longer. Months and months longer, not to say years. Well, she was going to be _very_ disappointed. Of course he wouldn't say a word. He wouldn't need to. His happy smile would say it all.

So, where were they? Beckett had said _everything's clear_: Dr Burke had said that there would be a joint session on Monday…ergo, Monday was crucial. And, since he was here in Beckett's bed, both of them naked and sated, it was going to be crucial in a good direction. He smiled contentedly, made sure he was still in touch with Beckett's sleeping form, and fell asleep as easily and comfortably as a happy child.

* * *

Over the weekend, Castle managed to convince Beckett to come out for a trip through Central Park, with ice creams, but little else. She admitted to wanting to spend time at a shooting range – and since she couldn't use the NYPD's, being benched, she was having to fit in at her father's, at inconveniently random times.

And so, on Monday, they arrived at Dr Burke's separately, each a mass of nerves for different reasons.

"Good morning."

"Hey," Kate and Rick said in tandem.

Dr Burke smiled kindly upon them. He was quite sure that they had enjoyed some time together, which was to be encouraged. He hoped, however, that they had deferred discussion of their remaining issues until now. His confidence in their ability to surmount those issues only extended to any situation in which they were subject to his expert mediation between them.

"You have both agreed on a joint session. Rick, I should like you to begin, by explaining why you were so concerned on Friday."

Rick goggled, and paled. "Me?" he squeaked.

"Yes. We must ensure that all issues are brought out in this session, even if we do not finally resolve them. In this way I consider that you and Kate will be able to return to the precinct as quickly as possible, if it is Kate's desire to return."

Rick gulped. Kate flicked a worried glance at him as Dr Burke waited.

"Uh…um…even though I know you're trying I was really unsure because we've" – Dr Burke was relieved to hear the _we_ in Rick's words – "always messed it up somehow and I just couldn't believe it was real and I don't like feeling that you need to make all the moves just because I'm mixed up and anyway Dr Burke said that this was just a wobble but every time you said you had an issue I was scared we were going to fall apart again…."

Kate's expression was a study in confusion.

"I mean…having to come to counselling seems like we were never right…"

"We weren't."

It was Dr Burke's turn to blink in confusion. Kate's incisive tones sliced through Rick's incoherent burbling.

"We…weren't?" Rick said.

"Of course we weren't. If we had been we'd never have made so many mistakes and wasted so long. If we'd been _right_ we wouldn't have messed around with other people and never said what we really thought. If we'd been _right_ it wouldn't have mattered that I got shot because I'd never have lied about hearing you because we'd have been together already."

She drew breath. "If _I'd_ been _right_, I'd have told you the truth a year ago, rather than running away. That I was ready to dive in." She swallowed, and hitched. "That you're everything."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Yet again, there is a possibility that reviews are messed up. You know that I'll answer when I can. I do like hearing all your thoughts!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Dr Burke did not approve of overwhelming displays of affection in his sessions, but even so, he could recognise that Rick's response to Kate was both necessary and appropriate. He averted his eyes, finding it important that he sought out paper and pen from his desk. After a suitable interval, he returned to the session. Rick was now sitting with an arm around Kate, and they had their hands locked on Rick's knee. Both of them looked blissfully happy.

Rick was murmuring in Kate's ear, which produced a delicate blush and a firmer grip on his hand. Dr Burke inferred that endearments had figured.

"I consider that you have made an important breakthrough. Now, Kate, please explain the reasons for your past behaviour – Rick will explain his afterwards – as you explained them to me on Friday."

Kate would clearly have preferred to flee. However, it was necessary that both parties openly explained their reasons so that there could be no more misunderstandings stemming from the past. New misunderstandings, sadly, could never be prevented, though Dr Burke hoped that they could now be minimised.

Kate swallowed, and her hand attempted to leave Rick's. He recaptured it, and stroked it soothingly with his thumb. "It's okay," he murmured. "Whatever it is, we need to talk, so let's do it here." She swallowed again, and gripped his hand till her knuckles turned white and he winced. She consciously eased her clasp, and stared at the floor beyond her feet.

"You said," she began, "that I was hiding in nowhere relationships." Rick winced again. "I was. Because I'd always relied on how angry I was about my mother to be so good at my job, and those relationships didn't challenge that. Because I really didn't care that much about them. I cared so much more about my job and her case. I never had to choose or even think about it." She paused. "And then there was you. Poking and prying into her case and _investigating_ and finding evidence that I couldn't find. Getting in my face." She stopped, and her tone changed. "Getting into my life. Trying to make it better. Trying to make me happy. Trying to help." Her face creased with unshed tears. "Getting more important. I couldn't bear to realise that. I hid in not giving up her case and being a really good cop because that way I didn't need to face up to what I felt and I never needed to realise that I might as well have died with her for all the life I had."

She used her free hand to dash at her eyes.

"I was avoiding you. Because I'd have had to realise that you were already important." She swallowed again. "And then it was the funeral and I was going to tell you… and then …" She very obviously stopped before she said _was shot_. "And you said it. But all I could remember with it was dying and I wanted to forget it all. I couldn't tell you I didn't want to remember you saying it because I thought you'd leave. I thought you'd take it as rejection and then you'd go and I couldn't bear you going. So I lied so you'd stay and I _thought_ I'd get to a point where I was fixed and I'd forget the whole day and we could start again. But then you heard me, and you left anyway. And I had an episode and got benched and I kept having them. And then there was no point in anything, so I went upstate and I didn't care what happened."

Dr Burke noted that Kate's final words did not surprise Rick.

"But you came after me." Rick's mouth opened, but at a discouraging head-shake from Dr Burke, he stayed silent. "Shoved me into not dying – again." She looked Rick full in the face for the first time since she'd begun to speak. "I wouldn't have cared if I'd died up there. I probably would have, if you hadn't arrived." Rick's hand turned white around Kate's. Thick, suffocating tension gathered around her. "I wouldn't have noticed or cared." A tear slid unnoticed down her cheek.

She sniffed, and pulled herself together. "But we couldn't talk about it without fighting. So we came here. And now I can't find the anger any more and I don't want to kill myself over my mom." She paused. "I just want to be with you," she said, looking straight into his eyes. "I love you." She kissed Rick. Dr Burke found it necessary to look away, and blink hard, as Rick enveloped Kate.

"Perhaps we should have a very short break?" Dr Burke suggested. "We may reconvene in a moment or two."

"Okay." Rick and Kate vacated the room, still hand in hand until they parted ways. Dr Burke made himself comfortable for the second half of the session. Rick had taken Kate's confession surprisingly well, but then, Dr Burke suspected that he had heard most of it before. He was not as sanguine about the reverse.

They returned, and sat together, still holding hands.

"Rick, it is your turn to explain your reasons."

Kate's hand remained entwined with Rick's. "It's okay," she murmured, just as Rick had. "We're here now. It's just…history, so that we don't repeat it."

"History? I guess so." He took a deep breath. "So…maybe I should start at the beginning. You know I was bored, and blocked, and you stalked up to me and arrested me and you weren't nice to me _at all_." He grinned. "You were the first knockback I'd had in _years_."

Kate rolled her eyes.

"Anyway. At first I just wanted a fling. But…that changed. And then I read your mother's file" –

"What?"

"Um…I read it. I wanted to help. You know that – you said it, just a few minutes ago. It backfired. But we patched it up. When that bomb blew up your apartment I thought that if you were at the loft you'd get closer… but I never actually said that was what I wanted. So… maybe it was a missed chance, or maybe it was too early anyway. I thought when you didn't make any moves that you weren't interested, and then Ellie was interested, and why shouldn't I when you didn't care?"

"I was scared. I was waiting for you to make a move too." Their hands tightened on each other's.

"So I guess you took up with Demming because you thought I wasn't interested and because you'd gone off with him I invited Gina and by the time I'd got back you'd broken up" – Kate made a strange sound.

"I broke up with him about ten minutes too late. I was going to say… and then Gina turned up…and we missed another chance."

Rick put an arm round Kate.

"Anyway. If only I'd said something… but when I did you were bleeding out. And there was Josh. And I guess what I'm dancing around is that every time one of us was ready someone or something got in the way so now I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop and it to go wrong again. So I needed you to make all the first moves so I knew you were as into me as I am to you, because if we were solid then we wouldn't have needed Dr Burke." Rick was looking at the toes of his shoes. "…and if you were uncertain then I was uncertain and" –

"And that's where we began the session," Kate said firmly. "We _both_ made a lot of mistakes. We both lied to each other – same reasons: we didn't want the other to be hurt. We're both a bit unsure. But Dr Burke thinks this is normal and _I_ think that we're more or less fixed now." She frowned. "Don't you?"

"Yes…"

"But?"

"But what about the PTSD?" Rick blurted. "We've all – you, me, Dr Burke – been sidling around and not actually saying what happened so that you don't have another episode, but we can't do that for ever."

Dr Burke decided that it was time to intervene. "We shall start to deal with the PTSD now. Kate, would you please consider why your PTSD re-occurred when you interrogated the suspected bomber, when it had been largely quiescent for some months, leading you to believe that it had been entirely overcome?"

There was a long and painful silence, during which Rick's comforting arm did not move from Kate's stiff shoulders.

"He said that he didn't remember, because of the trauma. And I couldn't forget and he was lying. Like I was lying. And I knew he was lying and it triggered everything. My lies, everything."

"In fact, someone attempting to lie to you in the same manner in which you had lied brought, one might say, the whole house of cards tumbling down."

"I – yes."

"Mm." Dr Burke steepled his fingers. "When was your last episode since that interrogation?"

"Last Thursday."

"And you have had repeated episodes since the interrogation."

"Yes."

"Prior to that, your last experience was some five or six months ago, during a case related to a sniper."

"Yes."

"Why do you think you had no further episodes after that case?"

Kate squirmed. "The team got me through. Castle was there. All the time. And Espo…he'd had experience, from the Army. He talked me through it with the rifle that was used at the cemetery."

Dr Burke exchanged a fast warning glance with Rick. "The rifle which shot you?"

Kate blanked out, but Rick, forewarned and quick to pick up the signal, had her safely caught.

"Was that really necessary?" Rick snapped.

"Yes. I do not wish Kate to minimise the issue of her PTSD. Whilst you and her team helped her to mask it for months, that will no longer work. She must deal with it, not simply hide it."

Rick's response was forestalled by Kate's eyes clearing, though she was shivering alarmingly, which Rick dealt with by swathing her in his much larger jacket.

"You did that deliberately," she tried to snap, ruined by a distinctly tremulous voice.

"Yes." Dr Burke was unapologetic. "We must establish the remaining depth of your PTSD in order to treat it. Now, six months ago, your team and Rick got you through, as you put it, and you had no further episodes."

"No."

"Were there any points where you feared that an episode would occur?"

"Sometimes. But then it didn't happen."

"Why not?"

Rick suddenly startled.

"I…distracted myself."

"You talked to me," Rick said bluntly. "Not about PTSD, but…anything. Or you suggested Remy's if it was dinner time. Or coffee." He gazed at Kate. "Did you even know you were doing it?"

"I didn't think about it." She stared at her shoes.

"And then I wasn't there after the interrogation."

"Perhaps you had a prophylactic effect, but that should not be relied upon now, nor would it be healthy for it to continue as Kate's method of prevention. You cannot be her sole support." He turned to Kate. "You must overcome it for yourself."

"Yeah. I get that." She glanced at Rick. "You can't be there all the time." She grinned, suddenly. "You'll have book tours."

"You could come too."

"Cops don't get that much vacation time. Anyway, why would I want to sit and watch you signing books for a long line of hopeful women?"

"You'd be protecting me. Serve and protect."

Kate rolled her eyes.

"Fascinating as it is to see you interact – I presume – relatively normally," Dr Burke said acerbically, "we do not have much time left in this session, and it would be helpful to begin to address methods of reducing your PTSD. However, first, Kate, do you intend to return to the NYPD as a homicide detective?"

"What? Yes."

"That's a breakthrough," Rick muttered.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because for the last six weeks Beckett either hasn't wanted to or hasn't been sure that she wants to or didn't know if she'd be able to go back."

Kate made a most peculiar noise.

"You have," Rick said. "This is the first time I've heard you say that you intend to go back like you mean it. I mean, I knew you would," he smirked, "but you didn't seem to."

"You knew?"

"Yeah. Every time Gates baited you, you waded in like you were right there in the precinct facing her down to defend the rest of us. Sure I knew." He smirked more widely. "I know you better than you know yourself."

Kate sighed, rolled her eyes, and sighed again, in tandem with Dr Burke.

"There are two routes," Dr Burke said, ignoring Rick, "which you might take. Both involve forms of desensitisation."

"Yeah?" Kate focused on him.

"One is for you to visualise the original incident, as often as you feel able, until it becomes only a memory. The other is for me to cease to avoid the triggering terms, and use them to you until you no longer experience a traumatic flashback."

"Or both."

"That is possible, and indeed what I would recommend, if you feel able. You should not pursue either route at the risk of your mental stability or to the point where you make yourself unwell. In fact, at this time, you should undertake these exercises here, and not when you are at home. If we find that you progress well here, then we will extend your program to encompass your apartment."

"Or mine," Rick said dreamily.

"All in good time," Dr Burke said repressively. "As part of your therapy, and to prevent you continuing to depend on Rick or indeed any co-workers, you should not undertake these exercises with Rick or your team present. We are endeavouring to ensure that you do not continue masking the issue with a dependence on either of them. I understand that you are not to return to work until I confirm to your Captain that both your relationship issues and your PTSD are addressed." He smiled. "I can confirm the former at any time. The latter still requires some work."

"But…"

"Kate. You have been ignoring or masking this issue for almost a year, wittingly or unwittingly, abetted, again wittingly or unwittingly, by Rick and your team. It is time to deal with it correctly, if you wish to recover." Dr Burke regarded her firmly, and Kate's eyes dropped.

"Okay."

"Good. Now, we are out of time. However, as I am sure you wish to begin the desensitisation process as soon as possible, you may make an appointment for the first convenient time." Dr Burke stood up. "I shall see you then. Rick, I do not believe we shall need to meet again, although if something is troubling you, please do not hesitate to make an appointment yourself." He shook Rick's hand. "Good bye."

"Bye," Rick said happily.

"See you," Kate added, in considerably less cheerful tones.

* * *

"Free," Castle bounced. "What shall we do? Lunch, coffee, coffee and lunch? Or the Zoo, or the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum?"

"You're free," Beckett said dyspeptically. "I'm not."

"You're half free" –

"That's like saying you're half-pregnant. You either are free or you're not. You are. I'm not."

Castle captured her hand, and used it to pull her into his side, where he compounded his transgression by sliding an arm around her.

"Nope. I've caught you, so you're not free."

"Not that that's creepy or anything."

"Mean."

"But fair."

Castle magnificently ignored that comment. "Anyway, I'm hungry." He glanced at his watch. "It's lunchtime, and you must need a transfusion of caffeine by now. C'mon. Where shall we go?"

"Remy's. I want a big, juicy burger and a milkshake that's so thick I can dance on it."

"_Dancing with Milkshakes_? _Dancing on Ice Cream_? The possibilities are endless" –

"Shut up, Castle, or I won't take you to Remy's."

"I can take myself. I could sit at the table opposite and cast you longing looks till all the servers ask who the cruel, heartless cop ignoring me is…"

"I thought you wrote for Black Pawn, not Harlequin?"

"Mean. You're always mean to me." He gave her huge, limpid blue, puppy eyes. "You should kiss it better."

"Five year old."

"Yep." He grinned. "And now you're just about back to your old self, and here we are at Remy's."

"You were winding me up?" Beckett said indignantly. "Now who's mean?"

"Ah, perfect. Glare, eye roll, everything normal."

Beckett was still muttering darkly when they sat down, though it didn't, Castle noticed, stop her ordering her burger and strawberry milkshake and swallowing at least half of the drink without stopping for breath. The second half went down nearly as fast, and the second milkshake arrived with the burger. Castle concluded that Beckett's nutritional needs had finally hit her, and concealed a fond smile as she disposed of the burger in short order.

"Dessert?" he asked.

"Please. Brownies and ice-cream."

Castle ordered apple pie for himself, and after desserts, coffees. Since Beckett's hand was right there, he also took it, along with his coffee. She raised an eyebrow. "I wanted it," he said.

She smiled. "I'm going to need it back." Castle pouted at her. "But not just yet."

"What shall we do, then? You still owe me a kiss."

Beckett considered. "Let's go for a walk in Central Park. It's sunny, it's warm, and I can pretend it's not the city."

"Okay."

The walk was pleasant, and much to both their relief Beckett seemed to be perfectly capable of her usual miles of progress and her normal swinging stride: her pace completely unaffected by Castle's arm around her waist. Castle was quite happy. Beckett's walk had always matched his, and now that she was where she belonged, tucked into the crook of his arm, life was pretty good, especially as he didn't have to see Dr Burke again. He thought, after the morning session, that he was pretty much fixed, and that they were pretty much a _them_. He sauntered along, humming happily.

Disturbing their peace, Beckett's phone rang.

"Beckett," she said, unusually cautiously. She halted abruptly. "Sir."

Castle unashamedly listened in.

"I said that I would contact you in a few days. It has now been a few days. I trust you are progressing in your recovery?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I shall call again in a week."

"Yessir."

"Your team wished to speak to you. I have forbidden it until you are fit for duty. However, they requested me to pass on their best wishes, as I had told you by text. In case you were unsure, I am telling you again."

"Thank you, sir," Beckett said feebly.

"Dismissed," Gates said, undoubtedly out of habit, and cut the call.

"Gates doing _concern_?" Castle squeaked.

"Only because she has to."

"Maybe they took her in for repair and altered her programming." Beckett boggled at him. "She has to be an android. Nobody is that inhuman. She's got to be an artificial life-form."

Beckett wasn't listening any more. "I wanna talk to Espo and Ryan," she said. "But they can't talk to me…"

"They can talk to me, though. And I can talk to them. And…" he trailed in front of her.

"Yeah?"

"And, they can come to my loft for pizza and beer. Gates can't stop them visiting me, and if you _happened_ to be there – and you promise not to talk about work because if you do, when she finds out" –

"If" –

"_When_ she finds out," Castle emphasised, "because it's just like that teacher in fifth grade who _always_ knew when you were misbehaving" –

"I never had a teacher like that."

"Did you ever misbehave?" Beckett merely smiled inscrutably, and didn't answer. "Anyway, when she finds out she'll ban me, and I'd rather not have another go-around with her."

"Another?"

"Uh, can we get a drink and then I'll tell you about that? It was, um, before I got to the cabin, and, um, during."

Shortly, they were settled in a café with cold water and hot coffee.

"Okay, so spill."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Castle stared at his coffee, which didn't help him much. "Um…so when I got back from Vegas, I went out to where Ryan and Espo were, and they told me Gates had ordered me to report. So I went, and that was the first time I knew you'd been benched. She ripped into me for not being a good partner" –

"What? She had no right!"

" – and some more for not telling her about your PTSD much earlier, just like after we got back – told me I could follow the boys but basically made it clear that if I tried to fight back into following you I'd lose. But then she pretty much told me she'd worked out that you needed me" –

"You _what now_? Gates?"

"Uh-huh, and threw me out of her office. So that was the first time. You know, she really doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like any of us."

"True. Anyway. Um… I got Ryan to track your cruiser and I found you. The next day…after you'd said you didn't care if you died…" Beckett winced, and Castle took her hand. "It's okay now. We've fixed that. So the next day I…er…called Gates, and we…er…had a knock-down drag-out fight. It wasn't pretty. The worst thing was, she was right."

"About what?"

"Why she'd benched you. She didn't have a choice, once you fell apart. She could not notice till then, but after that it was game over. And then…um…we got to an armed truce, and then when you were a bit better from the flu she spoke to you."

"You went in to bat for me against Gates, who hates you? Guess it really is true love." But Beckett's snippy words were completely overshadowed by the admiration and love in her eyes.

"You didn't exactly pull any punches about me," Castle noted, "even though you thought she was going to fire you and you were still half-dead of flu."

"She had no right insulting you."

"That's for you to do," he quipped, but the look in his eyes took any sting away. He stroked her hand tenderly, as her fingers twisted around to close on his.

"I ought to get home," Beckett said unenthusiastically.

"Come back for dinner," Castle suddenly suggested. "I have wine, and coffee."

"Dinner normally implies food."

"Unlike you, Beckett, I have the ingredients to cook many meals already on hand." She spluttered. "C'mon. You never have anything in your fridge but blue slime moulds and the occasional packet of mouldy green bacon." Beckett humphed at him, but couldn't disagree. "So come back for dinner. Pleeeeeeeeeeease?"

"You're going to whine till I say yes, aren't you?"

"If it works…"

"It doesn't."

"Aww, c'mon." He widened is eyes, and looked as adorable as he possibly could. "Pleeeeeease? I have really good wine."

"Why didn't you say that earlier?"

"I did."

"No, you said you had wine. If you'd said really good wine, I'd have said okay then."

"You're _messing_ with me. That's not fair." He remembered something. "And I could call Ryan and Espo right now and they could join us."

Beckett blinked, and said, much more slowly than Castle would have expected, "Okay." She sounded dubious, and her face had clouded.

"What's up?"

"What if… what if they don't want to? What if they don't trust me any more?" she rushed out. "I got them into trouble and I collapsed and what if the team's broken?"

"Nope. Not happening."

She stared piteously at him.

"Not happening because you went in to bat for them still half-dead and faced down Gates, and they know it. They _heard _it. You were there for them and they'll be there for you. If they weren't, they wouldn't be passing on messages through Gates and she wouldn't have had to stop them calling you – remember? She did it when you were upstate and she's done it again now." He stopped walking, and drew her into a hug, tucking her head against his shoulder. Irrelevantly, he realised that she hadn't been in heels since she'd gone upstate.

"Really?"

"Really really. Now c'mon. We've been walking for hours and if you want Ryan and Espo to come to the loft we need to call them now."

Beckett gave an audible gulp and pulled herself together. "Do it," she decided. "At least that way I'll know."

Castle whipped out his phone and tapped the number before she could change her mind and tell him not to.

"Hey, Ryan."

"Castle? Hey, man. What's up?"

"Are you and Espo busy tonight?"

"I'm not. Dunno about him – why?" Ryan sounded suspicious.

"I thought you might like to come over to the loft."

"Why?" The single word carried Ryan's rarely-heard bad-cop interrogation tone.

"Because Beckett's going to be there and I thought you'd want to see her."

Castle heard a crunch as the phone hit the desk.

"Espo!"

"Yo?"

"C'mere. Castle's saying" – Ryan's voice dropped to a low murmur, presumably to avoid any chance of Gates detecting him – "Beckett's gonna be at the loft tonight and we should go there."

"Sure," Espo said insouciantly. "Tell him to get some beers in. I don't do wine."

"Philistine," Castle said to the phone.

"We'll be there as soon's shift's over," Ryan said. "Later, gotta go."

"I guess we'd better get some more beer on the way," Castle said. Beckett simply nodded, retreating into her own head and clearly worried about the coming evening.

"It'll be okay," he said.

* * *

"Ah, Richard," Martha said, swishing in the direction of the front door, "I'm – Katherine! My dear, what on earth happened to you? They say you can never be too rich or too thin, but I think you're really taking the second one to extremes. Richard, darling, do feed the girl, or I shall have to."

"If you try, it's more likely that Beckett will lose weight, Mother. Your record is not encouraging."

"Pish. You survived, didn't you?"

"I could cook by the time I was ten."

Martha ignored that comment, and swept Beckett into a theatrical embrace, complete with cheek kisses. "Now, as I was saying, I am on my way out. A performance, and then a little soiree afterwards."

"Should I expect you back tonight?"

"Only if it all goes terribly, terribly wrong."

"I really didn't want to know that. Have fun."

"Bye," Beckett added.

"At least that's the source of embarrassment out of the way," Castle noted. "Alexis is at the movies with some friends." Beckett relaxed infinitesimally. "Uh?"

"She's a bit protective of you."

"No, she gets it. It'll be okay."

Beckett wasn't entirely convinced, from the twist of her lips, but at that point the door was loudly rapped, squashing any comment she might have made.

Esposito sauntered in first, as usual, followed by Ryan. Their eyes widened.

"Fuck, Beckett," Espo growled. "I thought you looked like shit the other week, but you're a freaking skeleton. What the _hell_ happened to you?"

"Flu," she said shortly.

"Yeah, right. That's not just the flu. That looks like you haven't eaten for a month."

"Leave it, Espo," Beckett warned.

"I guess Castle'll feed you properly. We all know you live on take-out and E-numbers." Ryan attempted to turn the conversation, before Espo was turned into a burger.

"I do" –

"So," put in Castle. Beckett scowled at him. He smiled sweetly back. "But I am a gourmet cook," he bragged, "so you don't have to swallow all those nasty E-numbers and preservatives."

Ryan snickered loudly. "So what's for dinner, Chef?"

"Pasta carbonara, garlic bread, salad, beer for Espo who has no palate," – Espo scowled so blackly that cream would curdle – "and wine for the rest of us. Shall I pour?" he said smoothly, uncorking a bottle and then removing a bottle of beer from the fridge.

"Please," Beckett said. She already looked strained, and as soon as she had taken her glass she went to sit down. Both cops watched as she went, raising silent questions towards Castle, who was fussing with bacon, cream, and pasta. He shook his head at them, gave Espo the beer bottle and an opener, and Ryan a glass of the white wine. They followed Beckett to the rhythmic sound of Castle chopping bacon.

"We're not allowed to talk to you about anything to do with the precinct," Ryan said apologetically, "or Gates said she'd suspend us."

"Oh." Beckett's flat tone flattened that line of conversation too.

"She wouldn't let us call you," Espo grated. "I said you needed to know we were still _your_ team and we still got your back."

"Uh…"

"You thought different?"

"I…wasn't sure. I was the one got us all in trouble, and black marks on your records..."

"Won't be the first," Espo said. "I had a couple before I left the 54th. And there was that kid…remember?"

"It's my first," Ryan said, "but I'd rather have it than have done it any differently."

"Choirboy," muttered Espo, and received a searing glare from Beckett. Before a fight could develop, Castle sauntered over with his own glass of wine, sat down next to Beckett and put his free arm around her shoulders in a fashion that wasn't _quite_ a challenge.

"The sauce'll take a while," he said. "The flavours need to blend." His culinary commentary didn't soften Espo's gaze in the slightest.

"So if you're such a great cook, how come it looks like Beckett hasn't eaten anything since Christmas?"

Castle's mouth opened. Beckett's snap got there first. "Are you saying I can't feed myself? I had flu. I couldn't eat anything but chicken soup for the first couple of weeks because I threw up everything else. So I lost weight. You ever had flu?"

"Naw," he said shamefacedly.

"I did, once," Ryan admitted. "Felt like shit for weeks after I shoulda been better. Didn't want to eat a thing, but my mom made me. Couldn't eat much. I was just a kid, though."

"You can have the flu and the weight loss if you want, Espo," Beckett said dangerously. "I'll be sure to copy your sympathetic approach when it's you vomiting your toenails up."

Espo subsided, and Ryan turned the conversation to baseball, which caused yet more arguments, stirred by Castle's faux-naïve questions about the relative merits of the Mets and the Yankees, over an excellent dinner of which Beckett ate considerably more than her fair share, especially when it came to dessert. She hadn't had to force herself to eat, either, although she'd have done so, if necessary, to wipe the appalled looks off the boys' faces.

"You'll be back to normal in a week if you keep packing it away like that."

"When are you coming back, anyway?"

Beckett heard both comments as _we miss you, get your ass back_. "When Gates lets me back. I guess she'll make me requalify, too."

"Yeah. Stickler."

"But are you better?" Ryan asked more insistently. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Getting there," Beckett replied. Her tone didn't encourage further comment.

"Don't take too long. You'll get lazy." Also a form of _we miss you_.

"It'll take a long time for her to get fat."

"Sitting right here, Ryan."

"With another helping of ice cream and enough chocolate sauce and sprinkles to bury Mount Rushmore."

"Earlier you complained I was too thin. Now you're complaining that I'm eating. Make your mind up, huh?" Ryan coloured up. Beckett's tone had bitten.

"Coffee?" Castle asked the bristling cops.

"Please," Beckett answered.

"Yeah, great," the others said. Castle wandered off to the machine, and Beckett piled up plates, shoving them at Espo, who took the hint and the plates.

"When _are _you coming back?" Ryan asked very quietly.

"When the shrink says I'm fit for work. Hopefully not too long."

"It was pretty scary."

Beckett didn't need to ask what had been scary. "Not much fun at my end either," she admitted, and sat down on the couch.

"That rifle's still in Evidence: the one that shot you – shit! Castle!"

"What?" Castle was already there. "What did you say?" He dropped down next to Beckett and wrapped her in. "Did you mention shooting?"

"Uh…"

Many words were being prevented from exiting Castle's mouth. Espo wasn't as restrained.

"You freaking dumbass idiot! You knew what triggered it. Now look at this clusterfuck you've made."

"Shut up, Espo," Castle said. "You're not helping."

"But he" –

"Shut up. He couldn't have known that it was particular words so just _shut the fuck up _and let's get Beckett out of this."

Espo stepped back. He wasn't used to a take-charge Castle, but the man seemed to know what he was doing. "What do you want?"

"She'll come out of it in a minute. I'm going to put her in my room" – he gave the other men a hard stare which discouraged comment or disagreement – "and then she can get over it in her own time. We're going to have a little chat."

Beckett deposited on Castle's bed, shoes removed, and having given a small questioning murmur which received only, "You had an episode. Curl up and come back when you're ready," and a soft kiss; Castle returned to the family room.

"What did you say?" Castle's question broke the tense silence between Ryan and Espo. Hostility tainted the air.

"I remembered that last time this happened, Espo fixed it by talking Beckett through the story, with the rifle from evidence – you told me so, Espo."

The hostility dropped away. "Yeah. It worked, too."

"Yeah. So I thought if we did it again…so I reminded her that the rifle's still in Evidence, in the lockers."

"Not a bad idea," Espo said thoughtfully.

"What, _exactly_, did you say," Castle rapped.

"That rifle's still in Evidence: the one that shot you…"

"Oh. Yeah. That would do it. Right as soon as you said _shot_. Every time, that does it."

"Are you saying she's having these often?"

"Yeah," Castle sighed. "That's why she's seeing the shrink." The other reason for seeing Dr Burke was none of the boys' business.

"Oh. Shit. That sucks."

"So what do we _do_ about it," Man-of-Action Esposito asked.

"We let the shrink do his stuff and we _don't_ use the trigger words or talk about that day around Beckett. She can ask the shrink about doing what you did last time."

"And how are you dealing with it?"

Castle merely smiled.

"So not cool to keep secrets," Espo complained.

"He doesn't need to. We know they finally got together. Beckett'd have shot him if he'd ever put his arm round her in public if not."

"Huh." Espo scowled, and said nothing more on that subject. "Got another beer?"

"Sure. More wine, Ryan?"

"Thanks."

Beckett's still half-full glass sat on the table, reminding them why she was absent. Conversation lapsed, and efforts to talk about sport, or berate Gates, safely far from her hearing, failed. After several uncomfortable moments, there were noises from behind the study, and shortly Beckett appeared, still pale and slightly wobbly, but present. She didn't hesitate before sitting down next to Castle, who didn't himself hesitate before returning his arm to her shoulders.

Beckett regarded the boys with a challenging stare.

"Didn't look like that was fun," Ryan said.

"Naw."

"It's not."

"You need to get that fixed," Espo said, in a statement of the blindingly obvious, which idiocy was normally reserved for Castle.

"You don't say," Beckett noted with deadly sarcasm. "No, I thought I'd just keep fainting every five minutes, because that's _so_ useful in my life." Everyone else winced. Castle's fingers tip-tapped on her shoulder. She slumped. "I'm trying, okay?"

"We know," Ryan reassured. "We got your back. Just as much as ever."

"Yeah," Espo agreed. "But you want something – that won't get us fired – you gotta say. We can't read your mind."

"No. We leave that to Castle there."

"If only," Castle muttered, and louder, "No mere male could ever read the female mind." Beckett emitted a sharp noise. "What? They can't. If they could there'd never be any worrying about birthday presents. You should have seen Mother's face when I bought her wrinkle cream one year," he said plaintively.

"You did what?" the other three chorused.

"In my defence, I was eleven. But she wasn't very impressed."

"Wonder why?"

"I didn't make _that_ mistake again."

Beckett snickered. "Bet you didn't." She sipped her wine. "I'm sure you made new ones instead."

Castle smiled, unbothered by the jab. "Sure I did. Usually by underestimating how gaudy Mother's taste can be." Everyone laughed, being familiar with Martha's tastes. His smile turned wicked. "You know, Beckett, I'm sure you'd suit a luminous yellow dress patterned with purple and green parrots." Her enraged splutter was overshadowed by Espo laughing so hard that his beer bubbled out of his nose and Ryan's choking. Castle merely acquired an angelic expression, and drank his wine.

Not long later, Espo and Ryan departed, leaving Castle and Beckett in the loft. She gave a little sigh as he returned to the couch, and snuggled in much more definitively.

"Tired?" Castle asked.

"A bit."

"Cuddle up, then." He gently pushed her head into his shoulder, and manoeuvred her into a perfect placement. A soft kiss on her hair followed. She made a contented small noise and relaxed. "That's better." He smirked. "Told you, you didn't need to worry. They're still your team."

"Yeah."

"They want you back."

"Yeah."

"So I hope you're investing in asbestos vests."

"Yeah – what?"

"Didn't think you were listening. Asbestos vests. To stop the Gates flamethrower, since you'll be standing in front of the boys and first in line to be scorched to ashes."

Beckett gave a disgusted noise, and didn't move.

"Do you think they're really okay with it?" she asked, unusually unsure.

"Yes. They wouldn't have come for dinner, if they weren't cool with you. You heard them. Okay, Ryan's a dumbass, but Espo ripped into him till I stopped it and they both just want you to be back, better."

"'Kay."

"More wine?"

"Better not. I think I've had enough." She peeped up through her lashes, but didn't say anything further.

Castle looked down at her head, and pondered his next words before blurting them out. "You could stay," he tried cautiously. "If you wanted."

"Huh?"

"You, um, had an episode, and, er, you said you slept better if you were with me and, um, you're here so, er, why not just stay?"

Beckett emitted an unedifyingly confused squeak, which gave Castle confidence.

"Just stay here tonight."

"Okay."

Castle emitted an equally unedifying squeak – mainly of amazement. "Really?"

"Yep. But you'll need to lend me a t-shirt to sleep in."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

Castle prevented himself from making any of the vast variety of salacious suggestions that trembled on the tip of his tongue, confining his spurt of desire to a closer cossetting of ever-more-relaxed and sleepy Beckett, who was currently soft and lax beside him.

"C'mon. Bedtime." He gave into his impulses, stood up before she could, swept her up, and carried her through to his bedroom, where he placed her neatly on his bed.

"Thought you had a guest room?"

He stared at her. "Ss…ss…sure. But… Yeah. You _know_ that" – he suddenly stopped. "You know that," he said in a very different tone. "You're _messing _with me! You..you're being _mean_ to me."

Beckett snickered. "You're so easy." Her mischievous grin was interrupted by a gaping yawn.

"Bedtime. Here, not in the guest room." He wandered into the en-suite bathroom, and after a minute came back to delve into the back of a shelf in his massive closet. "Have a t-shirt. Oh – and you can borrow a pair of boxers if you want."

Even in her sleepy state, Beckett grimaced. "No, thanks. Wearing your underwear would be creepy."

"Don't worry. I shan't be wearing yours. Frills and lace don't suit me."

"I" – another huge yawn reduced the annoyance aimed at Castle – "do _not_ wear frills."

"Lace, though? I always thought you'd look gorgeous in black lace…" Castle's eyes turned dreamy.

"Definitely creepy." Beckett reached for the t-shirt. "Plain? I thought all your t-shirts would have superheroes, or slogans."

"Nope. I wouldn't be lending you those ones. They're special." Beckett glared. "Nope. Your nails do enough damage to my nose and ears. I'm not letting them near my memorabilia."

Beckett tried to growl irritably, failed, and yawned her way to the bathroom, where she found a spare toothbrush, still wrapped, and a neatly folded towel on the vanity, though there were two on the towel rail already. She fuzzily concluded that the toothbrush and towel were for her, had a quick wash and brush, and fuzzed her way back to fall into the now-turned down bed. She barely noticed Castle disappear as she buried her nose in the Castle-scented pillows and eiderdown; eyes closing.

Castle had left because he'd heard Alexis returning, and didn't want her surprised the following morning if Beckett was awake in time for breakfast. After a pleasant exchange of views on the movie, and a warning to her that Beckett was staying that evening but was already asleep (without mentioning precisely where she was sleeping), they had reached normal familial harmony. Alexis disappeared to her room, and Castle re-entered his bedroom to find that Beckett was barely visible but – crucially – was occupying the side of the bed that he least preferred. A few moments later he slid into his own side, tucked himself in comfortably, and turned over to spoon Beckett in. She didn't even twitch, unlike Castle, who required some chilling thoughts to stop – ahem – twitching.

* * *

Beckett woke, finding herself firmly wrapped against Castle. A bleary glance showed her that it was still deep in the night, but that she had not, contrary to her dreams, turned into a teddy bear – although Castle's nose buried in her hair and his relative position around her made her wonder. She wriggled to allow her breathing to regulate, and fell straight back to sleep, secure in the cage of his big body.

When she woke up fully, she was alone. Soft tapping floated through the door, and when she managed to focus on her watch, it was after nine. She stretched, and found her way to the bathroom, after which she investigated the study, and, unsurprisingly, found Castle, swathed in a robe, fully focused on his laptop and completely unaware of her presence. She passed him by, noted with some surprise that he was touch typing at a rate she'd never be able to match, and hunted down coffee. He still had the same machine, and she remembered how to use it. Shortly, there was caffeine induced life. In the background, the tapping became a rat-a-tat fusillade, and then stopped.

"Oh, um, hey." Castle coloured. "Um…when did you wake up?" His eye fell on the almost-empty mug. "First or second?"

"First. You were busy. I didn't think you'd mind."

"No." He sat down beside her, blinked, and then kissed her. "Good morning," he said happily.

Beckett gleeped wordlessly, stared at him – and then locked her hands around his neck and kissed him much more thoroughly. "Morning," she smirked.

"Your coffee obviously agreed with you. Shall I get you some more?" He waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

"I can do it."

"Awww. You're no fun."

"You have no idea," she purred, and shrugged so that his oversize t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, as she strolled over to the coffee machine. "Want one?"

Suddenly his hands were on her waist, spinning her, pressing her against him, hard and forceful. "I want you." He dipped, and took her mouth: utterly possessive and passionate, conquering. She sighed, and sank into it, caught between Castle's hard body and the counter, coffee abandoned. Her hands slipped around and into his hair, holding him to her, fighting back. No toy she: nimble fingers skittered down to pull him in, wrapping a leg around; his touch sliding to trace the sharp cut of her quads, the curve of her ass, the heat at her core. She half-whimpered, half moaned: his wicked fingers finding ultra-sensitive nerves, sliding into tight heat, winding her up and _not stopping_ till she cried his name and came hard around his hand.

"Bed," he growled, swung her up and took her there, stripping the t-shirt as he laid her down, dragging her panties away, dropping his robe and boxers, rising over her as she opened for him and surging into her on a low roar, taking her deeper with every stroke and thrust, bringing her with him until she cried again and he shouted her name and collapsed, as spent as she.

"Mine," he said softly. "Always mine, Beckett."

"Yours," she whispered, and laid her head over his heart. "Always yours."

* * *

Much later, at home, showered, changed, and refreshed, Beckett found purse and keys to go to her appointment with Dr Burke. She wasn't eager. A long talk with Castle – avoiding any triggers – had helped, and she'd agreed to go to the loft immediately the session was over.

"Hey," she managed.

"Good afternoon." Dr Burke smiled gently. "I think that it would be best if you sat comfortably, wherever you think would suit best."

Beckett sat herself in an armchair, which she felt was most likely to keep her from sliding to the floor, and wished futilely for a seatbelt.

"Now, would you prefer to start with visualisation, or with desensitisation via words?"

"Neither?" Beckett quipped bleakly.

Dr Burke smiled thinly. "I am afraid that that is not an option."

"Yeah. Okay." She swallowed convulsively. "Let's start with visualisation. What do I do?"

Dr Burke was cautiously impressed. Kate, albeit through teeth so strongly gritted that a broken jaw was a concerning possibility, was taking her treatment seriously. "Once I have finished explaining, I would like you to take yourself back to the day of the funeral, as early in the day as you can manage. Then, I would like you to visualise everything that happened, from that point, until you can remember no more, or until you cannot cope with the further memory. While you are doing that, you should articulate each part of the memory: to speak each scene out loud."

"Okay." Kate swallowed again. Her hands were twisted whitely in her lap. "I have to do this," she whispered, almost inaudible. Dr Burke entirely agreed. She should have admitted the true story much earlier, too.

"I remember waking up," she began, and sank into the memory.

_She had put on her make-up with more than usual care: everything had to be perfect, to cover up the imperfections that had led to Montgomery's death. Her hair was combed into perfect submission, gelled and hair-sprayed so that not a single wisp could escape its glossy, formal bun. Her dress uniform gleamed, her badge shone. She was more perfectly arrayed than at her Academy graduation._

"All of it was to cover up the truth. Montgomery had been corrupt. So we had to be whiter than white. When I saw Espo and Ryan, they were just as polished. Not a thread out of place."

_She had picked up the few cards for the eulogy: had worked on it late into the night. Everything that she wanted to say, and written into it, the sub-text behind Montgomery's own words: a place to stand, and someone to stand there with you. Castle would understand. By the end of the day, Josh would be history, and she would have told Castle outright what she wanted. From death, life. From tragedy, happiness._

"It didn't work out like that."

_The journey to the cemetery had passed without her noticing: lost in the stress of the event to come. She took her place in the cortege; at the side of the polished oak coffin, covered by the flag; then on the podium. Bright sunshine bathed the scene; highlighting the stark black of the mourners and the precise, perfect uniforms. Only four of them knew the truth: bound to the secret. To everyone else, Montgomery had died a hero. They would take his secret to their own graves._

"Gates suspects there's more to it, you know. But she said that death forgave all sins, and she wouldn't ask."

_She had paced slowly to the dais: waited for every eye to turn to her. She had been determined to honour all that she'd believed Montgomery to be; all that he had taught her to be; to show – to herself, perhaps – that despite his feet of clay, he had shown her everything that a cop should be, could be. She could have done no less. And so, picture perfect, she stepped up, and faced them all, prepared to lie in her posture and her words, by omission and commission. Death forgave all sins, and Montgomery had given his life to make amends. Who was she to dishonour his ultimate sacrifice? He had laid down his life for her._

"So I started to speak. Castle knew what I meant when I said it. I saw him – it was such a small reaction, but it was everything. And then…"

_There had been a glint, and at first she had thought it was the sun on a shield, perhaps that of one of the cops towards the back, or on a necklace or watch. And then Castle had begun to run towards her, and then…_

"Then there was the pain and I fell and heard the shot" –

Kate stopped speaking, slumped and pallid, her head lolling sideways. Dr Burke watched to ensure she would not fall, and, satisfied, waited. At last, sluggishly, her eyes opened; her complexion still white and shadowed.

"I can't forget." Melancholy suffused her.

"Perhaps you never will," Dr Burke noted, "but you can reduce it to a memory. We have begun. Do you wish to continue now, or to try again at a subsequent appointment?"

"Continue," Kate forced out. "I…have to."

"Very well. Begin from the point at which you left off."

"It hit me, and then Castle…"

_Her chest was agony; on fire: something had slammed into her and then, a second later, Castle was there: hard hands pressing on her chest and begging her to stay with him: not to leave him. "I love you, Kate." He had almost never called her Kate. She never called him Rick. And then the darkness came, and she knew nothing more until she awoke in a hospital bed, a slice of pain in her side, a hammerfall between her breasts; and she was told that she had been…_

"Shot through the chest" – and the world slid away again in the memory of the pain and the shot and Castle crying to her to stay.

"Continue," Dr Burke said calmly, when she recovered.

"Isn't that the important bit? After that it was just the hospital, and the cabin, and," she added bitterly, "the lie."

"We need only continue until the point you feel you have had enough."

"I hated the hospital. I hated…"

_She had hated her own helplessness; the need for the morphine driver; the exhaustion. She had hated the terror in her father's face; the grey worry of her colleagues; and most of all, the guilt and horror in Castle's eyes. It was exactly the look he'd had as he was trying to stop her bleeding out on the soft green grass of the graveyard._

"I couldn't bear the way he looked, like it was somehow his fault. Every time I saw him…he came every day, I think. But when I saw him all I could remember was the pain and _dying_" – she fell apart again.

"So I ran away. Lied, and left…"

_The cabin had been so much easier. Nobody to disturb her. She had thought that the woods and stillness had healed her, and returned, requalified – and found that Castle had been removed. She had sought him out, and – no surprise – he had been furious. And yet he had forgiven her, despite her paucity of explanation; despite the lie that he had failed to spot. Perhaps he had never wanted to try to spot it. Somehow, that had helped her mask her flashbacks: his constant strength giving her confidence; his unstinting support there whenever she needed just a little more than she could give herself. Even when the sniper case had triggered all the memories…_

"I hid just how much that affected me. They – all three of them – got me through. And after that I thought I was fixed. I thought I'd forgotten."

"Until now." Dr Burke steepled his fingers in consideration. "Do you think that you could describe one more situation?"

"What?"

"The interrogation that triggered the flashback. If it is too much, we will postpone it until the next session. You have had much to deal with in this appointment, and I do not wish you to overtax yourself. We will take the time that is needed. Haste will not serve you here."

Kate considered under Dr Burke's assessing gaze. She was drawn and pinched in; her shoulders hunched against remembered pain, her body tense and her fingers white-knotted at the knuckles. Every lineament spoke of past agony in spirit, mind and flesh. Her glance flicked from her watch to her pale, thin hands, and back again: indecisive and fidgeting.

Abruptly, her head came up, resolution written on her face. "Let's do it. I've got to fix this."

"Very well. Continue."

"We brought in a suspect for the bombing at Boylan Plaza…"

_He had been defensive, arguing. She had already been stressed, but Castle had been there and that had grounded her. Their suspect had had means, motive, opportunity; no alibi. She had gone in alone, and gone in hard. _

"He said that" – her voice was bitter, full of disbelieving contempt – "he'd forgotten everything because of the _trauma_. And I lost it. I told him that trauma doesn't make you forget – I said _I was shot in the chest_" – and she collapsed.

Dr Burke waited, considering that Kate would emerge from her flashback in much the same time as the previous fugues of the session. As that time passed, however, and there was no sign of recovery, he began to become concerned. As two further minutes ticked by, he passed from concern to worry. He had already assured himself of her continued breathing, which, though slightly shallow, was sufficient. He continued to time her absence, and, finally, after a full six minutes, her eyelashes fluttered, the lids flickered, and her eyes opened.

"Are you well?" Dr Burke enquired anxiously.

"Uh…" Kate's gaze was unsteady, her voice and hands trembling. "I…don't know."

"That was most peculiar," Dr Burke commented. "Your reaction to that situation was much stronger than to the originating event."

Kate merely stared at the floor.

"I do not believe we should go further today." She shook her head. "Do you want some time to rest before leaving?"

"I came on the subway." Her hands were still tremulous, and her skin bloodless. "I… do you mind if I call Castle?"

"Of course not."

Kate succeeded in pulling out her phone and tapping a contact.

"Castle?"

"Would you come get me? I'm" – Dr Burke watched with some interest as she hesitated – "not fine."

A pause, in which Rick was clearly talking at machine-gun rate, with significant overtones of concern.

"Okay. Thanks."

Kate looked up. "He'll be here as quickly as he can."

"Very good. I suggest that you rest in another room – I have another appointment shortly – until he arrives. I think that we should not attempt desensitisation of any form for at least two clear days, so I do not wish you to make another appointment for before Friday."

"Okay," she said shakily. "Thank you." Her walk owed more to staggering than striding, and Dr Burke was convinced that the door frame was holding her up. He opened the door for her, and directed her to another room, advising the receptionist that Rick Castle would be arriving shortly to collect Kate.

* * *

When Castle's phone rang with Beckett's ringtone, his first thought was that she'd been delayed or was cancelling. When he picked up and heard the faltering tones, it was clear he'd been hopelessly wrong.

"Beckett?"

She wanted him to come get her? She was _admitting_ – albeit reluctantly – that she _wasn't fine_? What the hell?

"What happened? Are you okay? Don't move from there. I'll only be a few minutes and then it'll be okay: I'll be there and you can tell me about it – or not – but don't do anything till I get there. Okay?"

He closed the call and raced down to the garage. In far too long a time for his taste, but objectively only a couple of minutes, he was on his way, hoping frantically for green lights and no traffic. He was moderately lucky, though it didn't stop him tapping desperate fingers and forcibly not hooting his horn at every too-slow starter at any stop light. He squeezed the Mercedes into the first spot he saw, and almost ran to Dr Burke's office.

"Hey," he managed to the receptionist. "I'm here to get Kate Beckett?"

"That room there," she gestured. "She's waiting for you."

Castle was already halfway there before he'd finished saying _thanks_. With his hand already pushing down the handle, he realised that slamming in was probably unhelpful, and controlled his pace.

All his good intentions of control and slow pace flew out of the window when he saw Beckett's drawn, tense posture and ravaged face. She turned to the sound of the door opening, and almost fell into his arms in her haste to reach him.

"You're here," she whispered. "Thank you."

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Guest, who asked how many chapters - 30. I almost always complete the story before I even start to post, which is why I can maintain the all-conquering schedule. It means I'm not stressed and the readers don't have to wait - except for the next posting day. This story will be finished on Thursday, and my Pornado entry will start on Sunday._


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

He simply held her, feeling her thin frame shudder, not commenting on the emotion soaking through his shirt. When the shaking diminished, he took her to a chair, and sat with her on his lap, still holding on, still silent. She didn't need his words, she needed his warmth and strength. He was suddenly reminded of the same situation, in a doctor's consulting room in Malone, when she'd been still and unresponsive for long, terrifying moments.

"I'm here, Beckett. Just lean on me."

He wanted to ask what had triggered something so much more painful than her recent episode, but asking wouldn't help right now. Only strong arms, and a close embrace, and the certainty that she could – and she had asked to – rely on him: now, and always.

"'Kay." Her arms crept around him, though there was no power to her grip, and her head stayed on his shoulder. "Can we go?"

"Sure. Yours or mine?"

"Mine, please?"

"Okay. Let's go."

She stood up: his hands on her but not gripping unless it should be needed; moving to the door together. He kept a gentle touch on her waist on the way down, all the way to the car, until she sat down in the passenger seat. At every opportunity, he put his hand on hers, only removing it when necessary, all the way to her apartment. Her eyes stayed open, but he wasn't sure that she was seeing anything outside her skull. He pulled up and parked tidily; Beckett extricated herself from his car by herself, and he could relieve some of his feelings by slipping his arm around her waist and keeping her tucked close until they reached the inside of her apartment.

"You need to have a coffee," he decided, "and I want one too."

"Can you make it? I want to put on something more comfortable."

Castle, with some effort, ignored the feed line and tried not to think about what he'd like _more comfortable_ to be, while he made coffee.

More comfortable turned out to be old, soft sweats; which Castle had ample opportunity to inspect at close quarters: Beckett simply flopped on to her couch and made no effort whatsoever to evade him.

"Better?" he asked, after most of the coffee had gone.

"I guess. That…wasn't fun."

Castle hummed sympathetically, and drew soothing little patterns on the arm of the sweatshirt.

"We started the visualisations. Right back at the beginning. I expected episodes, and I got them. Three. And then we talked about the Boylan Plaza interrogation and it really went wrong then. It was so much worse than the others."

"Mmm?"

"And now he says I need a two day break, and not to see him till Friday, and how will I ever get better if I have to _wait_ all that time?"

"Have you looked in a mirror since you got home?" Castle said sharply.

"Huh?"

He simply rose, pulled her up, and marched her through to her bedroom and the full-length mirror. "Look at yourself."

An uncomfortable silence stretched out as Beckett stared at her reflection.

"You look like hell. Never mind that you haven't even started to put back on the weight you lost, you look like someone beat you up and you haven't recovered from the shock. You're in no state to do this again tomorrow _or_ the next day unless you want your next stop to be another week without getting out of bed."

"Oh." Still she stared, appalled.

"Just do what he says."

She turned into him, shuddering again, face ground into his shoulder, wordless.

"But there is something we can do."

"There is?" The hope in her voice was heart-breaking. "What?"

"We could try to work out why your reaction to the bomb interrogation is so much stronger."

"Without Burke?"

"As long as we avoid the trigger words… but if you start to zone out, we stop. Okay?"

"We're _good_ at solving things," she said, but weakly, and her face remained against his shoulder.

"Yep, and we're even better when we've got coffee. Let's get another one, and think."

It took a long, slow time before she finally moved, but when she raised her head there was a faint, hunter's light in her eyes. "Let's do this."

Coffee in front of them, Castle's arm back around her shoulders – she thought, distracting herself, that it obviously liked being there, and she certainly liked it there – Beckett began to think. Why would the interrogation be so much worse than the initial…incident?

"It was more recent…" she said aloud.

"Mmm?"

"But that should have made it weaker. It's not connected."

"Are you sure?" Castle queried.

"Huh?"

"Well…maybe it's because it was so much later. I mean…" His arm tightened. "…you'd been hiding it for a long time. The PTSD and" –

"The lie."

"Er – yeah. But the longer you hid it, the more stressful it got, maybe?" He stopped, clearly uncomfortable.

"Spit it out. I have to fix this."

"In the session, Dr Burke said that the suspect's lie triggered the whole collapse. Should we start there?"

"Yeah… Okay," she said with more vigour. "So he was lying. I knew he was lying and I lost my temper because it caught me on the raw. I couldn't believe that he could go through something like that – something where he could have…" she trailed off, and restarted, "…anyway, and he could just forget it, because it wasn't like that for me. I was trying so hard to forget and that lowlife was just so casual and dismissive like it was all so easy and he could snap his fingers and it was all gone. It wasn't like that." Castle hugged her, and allowed her to calm herself. "Just…hearing him lying like that opened up everything I was trying to get over." She gulped. "And then I said it out loud. _I remember every second_. I do. You know I do. But I hadn't said it out loud to anyone but Burke, ever. And saying it out loud made it real…and I remembered. Every. Single. Second."

Castle petted, and waited.

"And then you weren't there and I still remembered." She clamped her mouth closed. "You know all that. We've…you listened to it all. I don't need to say it all again."

Silence fell, broken by Castle.

"So… his lie rang your guilt bell, and that made you lose it, and then you said it out loud and the whole weight of everything crashed in."

"I guess. But why's that worse than…oh. You're saying that blocking it out for all that time and the stress of hiding the truth amplified it."

"I guess," Castle agreed, a little doubtfully. "Hey," he added indignantly, "I'm supposed to be the writer here. I do the precise wording, you do the action. You're not allowed to do words!"

"Not allowed?" The fearsome Beckett left eyebrow elevated.

"Nope. If you start doing words, whatever next? You might come up with crazy theories, and that's my job. You can't have it."

"Don't want it," said Beckett childishly, and stuck out the tip of her tongue. Anything not to have to think about the flashbacks any more.

Castle stuck his own tongue out at her, and waggled it. She snickered, but it felt and sounded forced.

"It's not working," he said. "You're still thinking about it, and even my supreme powers of amusement aren't helping."

"We've got to the problem. I just don't know how to solve it."

"That's Burke's job. Not ours. And, well, I don't think we should go any further without him. We've got a theory" –

"Do we? We got that far with Burke."

Castle ignored that. " – but if we try to prove it you'll be back there and you're not fit for it right now." He made a face. "You really aren't. And…and I can't watch it again. Not now. I hate seeing you back there."

"It's no fun for me either." She reached across and took his free hand in hers, turning across him and nestling into his chest. "I hate it. If I hadn't" –

"Stop. We've been over all that. Sure, but it's done and we're here. No more about it. I don't wanna talk about it when we've fixed it."

She looked up, meaning to say something else, but Castle most unfairly forestalled her by planting a firm kiss on her lips, and then lifted away again. "Please, let's just…not. I know you want it fixed and we both want to do it right but we have to wait for Dr Burke."

"Don't wanna," Beckett muttered, and more clearly, "I guess so. But I hate it."

"I know. You already said so. Lots of times." He petted hopefully. "We could do something you don't hate?"

A small, feline smile spread across her mouth. "What might that be?" She was pretty sure she knew. Castle's eyes were darker, and his clasp was a touch closer, a fraction more possessive.

"We could" – he paused – "go get some dinner, and then we could go and play pool at the Old Haunt. I need to check in with the manager anyway, and I bet I can beat you. Best of five."

Beckett gaped at him. That was exactly not what she'd been expecting, especially after the kiss – but as she thought about it, it sounded like fun. Her lately latent competitive instincts woke up.

"Okay. Give me ten minutes to change, and let's go."

She whisked through a fast re-do of her make-up, and whipped on a form fitting t-shirt and skinny jeans. She wanted to win, and bending over the table in these jeans would leave Castle open-mouthed and speculating wildly about her underwear. It didn't hurt that it would lead to later fun, either, which would take her mind off the session, the remaining issue, and indeed everything that wasn't his teasing, wicked mouth and fingers, and his big, hard body on hers. She threw a soft, sloppy sweater over the whole outfit, and sashayed back out to Castle's full appreciation.

"Where'll we go for dinner?" she asked. "Remy's?"

"If you like, or there's a nice Italian restaurant near the bar. The food's wonderful and it's quietly relaxed."

"Sounds good. Let's go there."

"Uh…before we do, can I leave my car here?"

"Sure."

Castle whistled down a taxi, and shortly they arrived at a small, unassuming entrance which opened into a small, cosy restaurant.

"Riccardo!"

"Hi, Paolo."

"Who is this?"

"This is Kate Beckett." Beckett smiled, a little uncertainly, at the dapper, cheerful man in front of her, whose eyes had lit up at Castle's introduction.

"Ah! This is your Katerina." Her jaw dropped.

"Castle?"

Castle looked as dumfounded as she did. "Paolo, what" –

"Oh, don't be so silly," a svelte, polished woman said from behind Paolo. "Riccardo, of course we know who this is. This is Katerina who inspired Nikki Heat." She regarded Beckett with approval. "I like her already. Go, sit." She shooed them further inside. "I shall bring menus and you will choose wine."

Castle was gibbering gently under his breath as they were ushered to a table and seated.

"Now, we have no specials tonight but for you, we can do anything you like."

"Livia…"

"No arguing. This wine" – she flipped the list open and indicated – "is excellent."

Castle gave up. "Okay. A bottle of that, and some water, and do I get to choose my own meal or are you going to tell me what I should eat too?"

Livia laughed. "Only if I don't approve of your choices." By this time, Beckett was also close to laughter. Livia clearly had the measure of Castle, and treated him like a favourite son.

Dinner was delicious, and much slower than either of them had intended. By the time their coffees arrived, in tiny espresso cups – Castle had asked for latte and been roundly told off for attempting to order a breakfast drink at dinner time – it was well past nine.

"Do you still want to play pool?" he asked. His hand was over hers, his thumb stroking gently. She flicked a glance at her watch, and at Castle.

"It's late. Um…" She knew what she wanted, but overt invitations were still difficult. "How about we skip the pool match and you come back with me?"

"Okay," Castle said happily. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy beating the pants off you at pool" –

"Like you could" –

"Oh, I could" – Beckett blew a rude raspberry – "but I'm sure I can take your pants off some other time." She spluttered. "So yes, I'll come back with you." His eyes darkened just enough to notice. "Make sure you get home okay."

"How chivalrous," Beckett drawled.

"I'm the epitome of gentlemanliness." She quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you don't want me to be a gentleman?"

She declined the bait, with an inscrutable smile, but then took his hand to lead him out of the restaurant and hail a taxi. Shortly, they were at her apartment, having not lost contact between their hands for a single second on the way.

Beckett opened the door and gestured Castle in. He preceded her, but instead of moving on towards the couch, he stopped, leaving just enough space for her to enter and close the door, and when she had completed those actions, caught her, smirking, and drew her in.

She looked up, only a little surprised.

"C'mere," he murmured. "I want to kiss you," and on the words he bent his head and softly landed on her lips: not demanding, not pushing; simply, only, affection.

She returned the affection in kind – for a moment, and then made her own demands: raiding, exploring; running her hands into the soft short hair at his nape and tugging him closer. When he acceded, she slid one hand down and pressed his body into hers, rolling her hips into him to find the instant, instinctive reaction.

"You're mine, too," she breathed.

"Always yours. Just like you're always mine." He sank back into her mouth as she steered him through the main room to the bedroom; whining just a little as she stopped kissing him and took a step backwards.

Her eyes admired him: sliding from the now-navy blue of his eyes, down to the broad chest and muscled arms, angling to his hips and strong thighs. She smiled at the sight of Castle preening a little under her desire-soaked gaze, and reached to the buttons of his shirt.

She began at the top, opening the first closure and dropping a small, teasing kiss at his clavicles. His arms locked loosely at the small of her back, caging her only enough that he could, if he wanted, steal teasing little kisses of his own. She traced a finger to the point of the vee, a barely-there scrape of nail, and he tensed as the second button fell apart, followed by another kiss: a little dirtier, a tiny flick of tongue. She continued downward, the kisses becoming more lascivious as she went, bending at the hips to reach; then straightened to push it from his shoulders. His breathing was deeper, the only sound to break the sensual silence. She stroked over those lovely firm pecs, all the way to his belt, and he gasped as deft fingers unbuckled it, oh-so-slowly, flickering over the button of his pants; tantalising. She smirked up at him as his flesh swelled and hardened beneath her touch.

He reached for her, and she tutted.

"Don't I get to play?" he asked.

"I want to play first. You'll get your turn." She peeped up flirtatiously through her lashes. "Just lie back and enjoy it."

"Oh, I will. And then I'll enjoy playing with you."

"Works for me."

She slid his zipper down, the button dealt with, letting the soft sing of the metal fill the air; slow and easy, seductive: pushed the fabric from his waist and took it down, letting him step out of them; backed him to the bed and pressed down on his shoulders to seat him. She folded elegantly, without speaking a word, allowing him to understand the next step; drawing off his shoes and socks, admiring his form with sparking, hot eyes.

She sat back on her heels, and met his gaze, as darkly intent as hers was. Still there were no words. Words were not required: she was no wordsmith; she preferred actions. Her tongue touched her lips, a stroke of wet pink tip over the full curves, a circle around. Castle's eyes were riveted to her mouth. She was still fully clothed as she curled fingers under the waist of his boxers and slipped them slowly away to leave him proudly, unashamedly naked, hands on his thighs, knees a little parted, fully erect.

"You don't" – he began.

"Shhhh. I want to." She leaned forward, and began to tease with naughty, delicate touches, little strokes to front and back, small circles around the head, a slide of thumb across the bead of liquid at the top. Castle's breathing quickened; his hands went to her shoulders. She leaned further forward, and he gasped as she took him in: almost too big, not quite thrusting forward; his hands tighter on her. She could hear the pitch of his breathing becoming frantic, and as she would him higher with wicked lips and tongue and fingers, gasp became groan became her name on a long low roar as he came in a hot, heavy gush and fell back on the bed.

Beckett started to remove her sweater, but Castle managed to find enough brain cells to construct comprehensible words. "Leave it. I wanna take it off." Her hands dropped. "C'mere." He wriggled into sitting up. "Please? I wanna make you just as happy."

For someone who'd just had a mind shattering orgasm, Castle was thinking remarkably clearly – although only about one thing: Beckett. Specifically, returning the favour and leaving her just as sated, pleasured and happy as he was.

He watched her unfold and glide towards him: a sensuous shimmy that left him astounded that someone fully clothed could be so utterly erotic. He twisted so that he sat, once more, on the edge of the bed: reached out and brought her towards him with his hands on her waist, sneaking his fingers under the sweater. She ended standing between his knees: beautifully close, perfectly positioned.

His hands slid more definitely under the hem of the sweater, and as he touched the soft wool (a cashmere mix, he wondered, or maybe angora?) he began to talk. He'd never really had the opportunity to seduce her with words; he wasn't sure that he'd really ever had the chance to seduce her, to woo her, to make her melt and flow; cast a sensual spell and show her everything he could do for her and with her and to her.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers. You are all very much appreciated._

_Reviews are being counted but can't be replied to...I will answer when FF fixes it._

_Final chapter on Thursday._


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

"I love this sweater," he began, "how it moulds itself to your shape, soft and strokable." He lifted the ribbed bottom edge, rolling it upward, uncovering the close-fitting teal-blue t-shirt beneath, his face only a few inches from her chest. "But it's not as soft as your skin." It passed her shoulders, and she raised her arms to let it go. "I like the t-shirt, too." His fingers slid under the fine cotton. "But again, I like your skin better." The t-shirt rolled up and away. "Beautiful creamy satin skin, irresistibly touchable. I'll touch it everywhere you want me to, everywhere you allow me to." He leaned forward and kissed the scar in the centre of her cleavage. "Everywhere," he repeated. "You're gorgeous." He kissed his way downward from her cleavage, passing over the lacy blue bra, past her sternum, to just above her navel; hidden by her jeans, and then sat back again, openly admiring, big hands wide around her waist, spanning it almost completely.

She swayed towards him, but he held her upright. "I think these jeans have had their day," he murmured. "They make your legs look even longer, but let's take them off." He peeled them down, delicately, and ran light fingers rapidly back up to her knees, where they paused. "Such lovely skin. Almost translucent." His fingers rose an inch or two. "I could spend all day stroking it." Another couple of inches. Beckett's breathing quickened, shallower. There was a slight flush at her breasts. "Teasing up towards your panties. Matched set. You knew I'd see them." She nodded, smiling. "Knew I'd like them." Another nod, and a quirked lip and eyebrow. "I do." His fingers wandered to her inner thighs, and she gave a small gasp-mew. "You like being stroked, whether it's your silky underwear, or fluffy sweaters, or my hands." He demonstrated, petting higher, and she squirmed and wriggled and made little sexy _I-want-more_ noises, which _more_ Castle was delighted to supply.

The silky fabric slipped and slid and glided over her, until she wobbled and Castle brought her down over him, rolled and leaned up over her, an arm beneath her neck, a muscular thigh between her legs. "Kiss me," he murmured. "Kiss me, Kate." She pulled him over her, and down, arching up to rub against his leg, kissing him like she'd never, ever stop. His hand replaced his leg, finding slickness and heat; she sneaked evil fingers around his ass and found the velvet skin below, retreated, wandered around his hip and found the hard length, curved around it and stroked in turn.

Her bra became undone, her panties disappeared, and she was as naked and aroused as he: mouths meeting, tongues duelling, hands mutually exploring, until he moved from her lush mouth to the still pert breasts, smaller than they perhaps should be, but when he cupped one it fitted his hand just _fine_. Such perfection deserved to be admired, and so he did, with nimble touch and then approving, adoring mouth: tiny kisses, delicate suckling, a twist that left her moaning.

"You like that?" he asked, half-rhetorically.

"You need to ask?"

"Just checking. Because if you like my mouth there… you'll like it even better _here_." He slid straight down her body and wriggled his shoulders to settle between her legs, took a satisfied breath and licked straight through the folds. She whimpered, so he did it again, savouring the taste of total arousal. She writhed, and his hands met her hips; holding her gently in place, ignoring the too-sharp jut of bone. He smiled against her dampness, and began to play: teasing the nub of nerves, around and around; then a little flick, a little suck, a breath across her; and _oh_ she surely liked that, even better: and then he found a way to add fingers to the game, and she clenched around his hand as he worked her up and then she fell apart with a high, wordless cry.

He crawled back up to wrap her thin body in and keep her warm, pulling the coverlet across her but himself staying mostly outside to cool down. She wiggled slightly, and snuggled into a comfortable spooned position, close-held in the cove of his body where he could curl around her and know she'd still be there, deep into the night.

It seemed, though, after a brief period of snugglement, that Beckett had other ideas. She wiggled again, in a stimulating fashion which certainly stimulated Castle, and then turned within his arms, squirmed over him, and spread herself over his torso, where she stopped. He whined, just a little, and pouted, adorably.

"I was all nicely snuggled up," he complained. "Didn't you like it?"

"Sure. But I got a better idea."

She wiggled again, slightly downward, and rapidly covered him as she went. The covered bit of Castle wiggled upward in return, and enjoyed the sensation as it met some interestingly available bits of wiggling Beckett. Cuddling, snuggling and nestling instantly became a very second-best option. The _best_ option was to slide up, or slide Beckett down, fitting as precisely as a hand would fit a glove.

"Okay, I like that idea."

She kissed him hard, and he stopped any idea of talking as she moved around him; his arms locked around her and he thrust up as she came down and they found their joint movement; slow and sure; forceful but not fast; strength into softness and hardness into heat; until all there was left was them, there, crashing over the cliff together.

"Now I wanna cuddle," Castle yawned. "Don't go away."

"Not going anywhere," she muzzed from within his clasp. "Don't go." And then, on a slow, exhausted sigh, "Love you."

"Love you too," he murmured, but he thought she was already asleep.

* * *

He woke, still wrapped around Beckett, who was still soundly sleeping and, when he moved, didn't wake. Since Castle thought that a week of ten hours sleep per night would be the minimum she needed, he sneaked out of bed, washed and managed to shave, and dressed in yesterday's clothes, which had not been improved by their sojourn on Beckett's floor. He flapped at them, which didn't really help. Then he uncovered pen and paper from her desk, scrawled a note, tucked it firmly under the lamp on her nightstand, took possession of her keys, and went out to the nearest store. He hadn't commented, and it certainly hadn't reduced their enjoyment, but she needed to gain at least seven pounds to be even halfway to healthy, and the best way to achieve that was to feed her proper meals, starting with a good breakfast.

He returned with all the necessary components of a luxurious breakfast, peeked into the bedroom to find Beckett still fast asleep with her face buried in his pillow, made up pancake batter ready for later, fixed himself a coffee, then borrowed a book and began to read, listening out for sounds of wakening.

Halfway through the book, there were noises of stretching, displeasure, and then a shuffle as Beckett poked her head out of her bedroom.

"Urrggghhhh," she said.

"Morning. I'll start breakfast."

"Urrhhhh."

It was very apparent that functional brain cells were not a part of the pre-caffeinated Beckett day, but that breakfast would be much appreciated. Having a full set of functional brain cells, Castle started the coffee first, and then put the bacon on, setting the table as it sizzled. Pancakes followed, and by the time Beckett emerged, dressed and sniffing the air hopefully, everything was done.

"Wow." She stared at the laden table. "Wow," she said again. Castle poured her coffee – he'd made a large pot – and joined her there.

"Dig in," he said. "I am." He'd already taken a stack of pancakes and several rashers of bacon.

Beckett took a pair of pancakes and two rashers, added a slosh of maple syrup and half the bowl of berries; downed at least two-thirds of her coffee in one draught, refilled the mug under Castle's astonished eyes, and then started on her food. Presumably, he thought irrelevantly, the coffee was required in order to kick-start her fine motor control.

Much to Beckett's surprise, her plateful, which she had thought was more than sufficient, disappeared in short order, leaving her still hungry. Since there was plenty more food, she took another helping, and another, which was finally enough, washed down with her usual pints of coffee.

"Better?" Castle asked.

"Yeah. I don't have to do anything for an hour or so, except digest, do I?" She couldn't remember when she'd eaten so much at one go. Breakfast wasn't even a meal she normally cared about, especially when Castle provided bear claws and extra coffee almost every day.

She looked at the remains of breakfast and sniffed hard.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. You… you're just always looking after me and I don't…" She sniffed again, and blinked.

"I like looking after you," Castle said calmly. "Not that I need to do it often, and you don't let me do it often enough either. You, my dear detective, are far too self-sufficient and independent. You should" – he assumed a portentous tone and expression – "let me deal with all the little difficulties of life, so that you can concentrate on the important things, like arranging the flowers I bring you" – he was laughing so much he couldn't continue, as Beckett's face was a picture of irritated consternation.

"You _rat_," she squawked. "You unreconstructed chauvinistic male prejudiced antediluvian" –

"Ooooohhhh, say that again" –

"Shut up, you prehistoric caveman idiot…_man_!"

Castle was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "What would I do with a fluffy-headed idiot who wanted to _arrange flowers_, for God's sake? I want a detective who leaps tall buildings in a single bound, solves the hardest crimes, shoots _nearly_ as well as I do" – there was an infuriated growl – "I am better: you know that." His tone changed completely. "And who loves me because I'm me, not because I'm rich or a celebrity or famous." He came around the table and collected her. "And you do. You never cared about anything except that I could help solve crime. So let me look after you occasionally, because you've no idea how much knowing you only want me matters." He looked at her. "Oh, don't do that. Please don't do that, Beckett." She sniffed damply. "Don't start crying. You're not allowed to be upset any more."

"Not crying," she wobbled.

Castle looked sceptically at the top of her head. He could feel a tell-tale damp patch in the shoulder of his shirt. "If you're not crying, for goodness' sake stop blowing your nose in my shirt. I've got to wear this till I get home."

"I am not!" Beckett said indignantly, and glared up through sodden eyes. "That's disgusting."

"This isn't," Castle grinned, and dropped a kiss on her nose, followed by one on her lips. He hugged her in. "I thought you were better. Are you?"

"Yes," she defended. He gave her a straight look. "Yes. Mostly." Another hug arrived around his Beckett-bundle.

"Okay, then. I ought to get home. Wanna come over for dinner?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"See you about seven."

"Okay." She stretched up and kissed him. "See you later."

"Yep. Bring a bag, and you can stay." He disappeared out of the door before she could answer.

Over Wednesday and Thursday, Beckett dined and slept at Castle's loft; eating quantities which would have overfed a streak of tigers and sleeping for nine or ten hours. Each day, she went for a run, gently, trying to recover some fitness without over-stressing her still underweight, under-muscled body.

* * *

On Friday, she returned to Dr Burke's office.

"Hey."

"Good afternoon, Kate."

"We had a theory." Dr Burke blinked, and hoped that this would not present another complication. "About why the episode when we talked about the bombing was so much worse." Kate obviously noticed his expression. "We didn't go near any trigger words and I didn't try to visualise anything. Castle wouldn't have let me, anyway," she added. Dr Burke entirely approved of this unexpected bout of good sense.

"So what was your theory?"

Kate outlined the detail, and then summarised with, "So we think that blocking it out for all that time and the stress of hiding the truth amplified it and that's still the case now."

Dr Burke agreed with this theory. "That is exceedingly likely. However, you are no longer masking your episodes, nor are there any further lies to conceal. Therefore you are unlikely to suffer from the same levels of stress, and we can expect that continued visualisation under my guidance will reduce the intensity of any episode."

Kate made a face. It seemed that she had hoped that a good reason would solve all her issues without further ado. Unfortunately, psychiatric treatment took both time and effort.

"Shall we begin?"

"I guess. Castle's going to come get me when we're done."

"A sensible precaution."

"Okay. Let's go. I remember waking up," she began, and sank into the memory. It was almost as awful as the first time.

Over the next two weeks, the routine continued. Three times a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday – she attended Dr Burke's sessions, visualised, and tried to reduce the intensity of the flashbacks; collected and cossetted afterwards by Castle, who refused to be dissuaded no matter how much Beckett tried to suggest that he didn't have to. Finally, the sessions seemed to be having some effect, though it didn't reduce the quantity of cossetting provided. She increased her running, and added gym time, and ate properly.

Gates called twice more, exuding chilly dislike, reciprocated with perfect formality by Beckett. Castle refused to be anywhere near the calls, considering, totally accurately, that Gates had even less desire to talk to him than he had to talk to her.

* * *

Finally, two months after the first, dreadful, visualisation session, Beckett had survived three full sessions without a single flashback.

"I think that we may now say that your flashbacks are under control," Dr Burke informed her. "However, you should continue to attend here once a week for a further month, and undertake your exercises each day."

"So will you confirm to Gates I can go back to work?"

"I shall. I believe that there are two confirmations which she requires?"

"Yeah. The PTSD and that Castle and I are fixed."

Dr Burke twinkled, which was unusual. "I shall provide both. You may expect that I shall do so by the middle of this week, and that, I hope, will allow you to return to the precinct next week. Of course, that is not my decision."

"No. Thank you, anyway."

"You are welcome. I shall see you next week, which I hope will prove to be at a time convenient to your shifts."

"Thank you. Bye."

Beckett swung out of the session utterly delighted with the world at large, and greeted Castle with a smile which almost wrapped around her head. "He'll tell Gates we're good to go," she announced.

"That's great! When?"

"Middle of the week, so he hopes I'll get back next week." Her eyes lit up. "I could call Gates and tell her, and then I could start back Monday." She stopped. "We. _We_ could start back Monday."

Castle, overcome by happiness, picked her up bodily and twirled her round and round. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a smacking kiss square on his mouth, then pulled away. "Come on. Put me down so we can go home and call Gates. I'm not doing that in the street."

"Sure. Um… where are we going?"

"Home."

"Yes, but which one?"

There was a surprised pause. "Oh. Does it matter if we're both there? Mine, then. Castle? Castle!"

Castle had stopped listening at _Does it matter?_ She'd stayed at his…but never openly said that it was another home for her. He picked her up again, and kissed her hard, swallowing any commentary.

"What was that about?"

"You said that home's where we both are. You've never said that I'm your home before."

Beckett coloured up, and dropped her lashes, but not before Castle saw the realisation and softness in her eyes. "You are," she breathed. "You…have been for a while. I only realised after…you're my safe ground. My place to stand."

He blinked, hard, but smiling as widely as she had moments ago. "I'll always be here, with you." He unwrapped from her, but kept her hand in his. "Now, let's go give Gates the glad news." He smiled evilly. "She's going to be so happy to hear that we're back."

Beckett rolled her eyes. "Why do you think I'm calling her?"

"Awwww. Can't we go see her? I wanna see her face when you tell her."

"Don't you have Skype?"

"Uh?"

"Safe distance."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun, and Ryan and Espo'll be there to take the pain when we make a sharp exit."

Beckett sighed, rolled her eyes, and glared, but Castle had the car keys and it was his car. Perforce, they arrived at the precinct, and made their way to the fourth floor, where Captain Gates was berating some unfortunate detective.

"Reporting, sir," Beckett said. Ryan and Esposito's heads popped up, rather like jack-in-the-boxes.

"Detective Beckett. Why are you here? And Mr Castle."

"I'm with her," Castle said happily.

"How…unfortunate." The twisted grimace on Gates's face exceeded Castle's wildest expectations. He smiled even more happily. "My office. Now. Not Mr Castle." She whipped round, and caught Ryan and Esposito staring. "Nor you."

Under Gates's flat, vicious glare, Beckett followed her, defiantly straight backed and chilly.

"Why are you here, Detective Beckett? I thought you had understood that you were not to come to the precinct until cleared."

"I have been cleared."

For a single second, Gates's expression turned impressed, before normal dislike of the situation before her intervened.

"I am not convinced," Gates said coldly. "You claim that Dr Burke will confirm, in writing, that your PTSD is cured?"

"Yes." Beckett bristled, standing at parade attention, rigid and glacially calm. "He will."

"And that your relationship issues with Mr Castle are resolved."

"Yes."

Outside Gates' office, flanked by Ryan and Espo, Castle watched, terrified. The cutting tones of each formidable woman would have sliced through granite. Beckett, even standing at attention, appeared to be close to incinerating Gates, though Gates also appeared to be ready to dismiss Beckett without a hearing.

"And you expect me to believe this, on no evidence?"

"Dr Burke will provide his confirmation, in writing, by the middle of the week. When shall I start back, _sir_?"

"You expect me to believe that in only four months you have overcome almost a year of hiding the PTSD resulting from you being shot in the chest?"

Gates watched carefully. Beckett paled, but nothing more.

"Yes, I do. Especially since, _sir_, you just tested it."

"I did. Did you expect anything else? I will not have any officer or detective in my precinct who is not fit for duty. Your record of deception in that regard does not incline me to trust your judgement on that matter. I will permit you to attempt requalification. However, you will not be rostered until I have both received Dr Burke's report and received your requalification certificate."

"May I have my service weapon, sir?"

"On conclusion of this interview. We are not yet done." They scowled at each other. From a safe distance, the three men watched and listened. "You have said that your dysfunctional relationship with Mr Castle is resolved."

"Yes. Sir."

"So why, Detective Beckett, are you _not yet engaged_?"

"Say _what_?"

Gates threw up her hands in utter despair. "It is obvious to the least intelligent person" – her eye fell variously upon Ryan and Esposito, neither of whom dared to comment – "that, however much I feel that you could do _much_ better for yourself, Detective" –

"Hey! That's just _mean_!" Castle squawked –

"you and Mr Castle appear to belong together." Beckett gawped. "That being said" – her face twisted, as if she'd bitten a whole orchard of crab apples – "why are you not engaged? I can only assume that your couples counselling has not yet succeeded."

"Couples counselling?" said Ryan and Esposito together to Castle. "You never told us" –

"Shut up," Beckett snapped, towards the door. She glared at Gates. "You" –

"As I was saying," Gates pinched out, "I do not believe that your therapy has worked." She glared back at Beckett with equal venom and ire.

"Are you calling me a liar, _sir_?"

"Do I not have grounds to do so?"

"Castle, get in here!"

"Yeah?" He regarded the warring women with considerable caution.

"Captain Gates" –

"I heard her."

"I'm not having _her_" – with a gesture of absolute contempt – "shoving her way into _our_ business. But" – she blushed furiously – "when we're ready… would you…"

"Well, _finally_," said Gates, sotto voce.

"Yes. When we're ready, I'll marry you."

_**Fin**_

* * *

_And that is the end. Thank you to all readers and especially to reviewers, both guests and logged in. _

_Next up, on Sunday, Start Me Up, an M-rated 2-shot._

_And for those of you who don't know or haven't looked: try my original novel, Death in Focus, available on Amazon under SR Garrae. The sequel, Death in Camera, will be out soon unless some agent takes it up, and the third in the series, Death in Sight, is making good progress. Updates, cover art, and details on my Twitter account, Garrae_writes._


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